The Brave Young Prince
by Channel D
Summary: Is Tim McGee royalty? Can he play royalty? Oh, the things your job demands of you.
1. At the Metro Station

Disclaimer: I own nothing of NCIS.

- - - - -

_Once upon a time, in a far-off land called _Washington,_ in the year of _2007_, the eternal war raged, as it did elsewhere, among the forces of Good, Evil, and Apathy. This is the story of one man's... or more than one man's... pitched battle on the side of Good..._

- - - - -

The August midday sun continued its regular, seasonal baking of the Washington D.C. pavement as NCIS special agent Tim McGee exited the Navy Yard Metrorail station onto New Jersey Avenue. Of course, at this time of year Washington almost never cooled down; its incubator of hot air relentlessly guarded, seemingly, by overly-protective spirits who loathed the thought of anything below 95 degrees.

Nearby the varied chorus of sounds of construction sang out at the site of the new RFK Stadium ballpark, where the Washington Nationals would play, perhaps as soon as next April. _I'm not a big baseball fan,_ Tim thought, _but it would be nice to catch a game after work with Tony, now and then._ He knew his team partner would kid him about his lesser knowledge of the sport and baseball stats, and Tim would pretend to know less than he did, and they would both drink overpriced beer and eat overpriced hot dogs, and enjoy the game immensely, whether the poor, league-bottom-dwelling Nationals won the game or not. _Something to look forward to..._

Tim had arranged for a "flex-lunch" for that day; he would put in the extra time taken for lunch at the end of his work day. It'd been worth it: with his sister's birthday approaching, he'd known he wanted to get her something from a little antiquarian book shop at Dupont Circle. The Metro was the fastest way there, and as the shop kept banker's hours (or what were called 'banker's hours' in his parents' day), lunchtime during the week was the only reasonable time to go, without actually taking time off work. Now he had his prize: a small, old book of Robert Burns' poems, nestled in a pocket of his sports coat.

From the Metro station to NCIS was about 3 /4 of a mile; only a ten minute walk. That would put him back at work at the time he'd projected he'd return. He stood at the intersection of New Jersey Avenue and M Street, waiting for the light to change so he could cross. He heard scattered, unintelligible phrases from a couple of men nearby; German or Polish or something. German had been one of his languages at school, and his attention was always caught when he heard it. The eternal summer haze, however, prevented him from seeing them clearly; they were too far away and there were too many reflections of sun on glass. A name-badge-wearing flock of conventioneers passed by in a sweaty procession, no doubt headed for the delectable air-conditioning of the nearby Marriott Courtyard Hotel. _Lucky dogs..._ Tim's eyes flickered over to the CVS pharmacy across New Jersey Avenue, and he remembered that he'd meant to pick up a new razor when grocery shopping last night, but it had slipped his mind. If he went to the pharmacy, he could also get something cold to drink. _It would only take a few minutes, but I should be heading back to work now..._

The area was busy. A Japanese tourist group walked by, chattering amiably. A family from somewhere in the heartland, camera-laden, walked, stopped, and gawked; over and over. The two German-speakers (so it seemed; Tim caught maybe one distant word in five) came closer, then one crossed M Street. Tim's German was a little rusty now, and words taken out of context could mean anything. Tuning it out, Tim lifted his cell phone to his ear.

_What a long light this is. Maybe the 'walk' signal is broken..._ "Hi, boss. Can I have another 15 minutes? I have one more errand to run."

One of the German-speakers (Swiss? Austrian? German? Tim couldn't pinpoint the country) came yet closer, and Tim realized he was hearing bits of his cell phone conversation. _"...no guards? Unbelievable! A stroke of luck!"_

"Okay, McGee," Gibbs said. "I'll need your tech report on the Dannon case when you get in."

"_...we can take him! What a triumph this will be for the Revolution!"_

Tim's eyes widened now at the sight of the dark-clothed German-speakers: one in front of the pharmacy; one on the other side of M Street; each with a high-powered gun pointed at him. There was no time to draw his own gun. "Uh, boss? I think I'm in trouble..."

Shots cracked the air, and people screamed and ran. With a cry, Tim fell into the street, in front of a small panel truck carrying produce. The driver slammed on the old vehicle's brakes, praying to God that he would be able to stop in time.


	2. Why McGee?

Sometimes, one doesn't have the luxury of waiting to discuss options; to make decisions. Sometimes, one has to grab at the most likely possibility, and run with it. Delay could be catastrophic.

That is why Gibbs and his team grabbed the van and raced the short distance to the Navy Yard Metro station. The Anacostia station was just about as close, but the Navy Yard station seemed more likely, since Tim, Gibbs thought, would _probably_ have been headed inbound and then not eaten the extra minutes going to Anacostia. Gibbs hadn't any idea where McGee had gone on his flex lunch time; hadn't asked, and now he regretted that. If he'd known a little more, that might have given a clue to other stations he might be at. _But he'd only asked for a 15 minute extension, so he _must_ have been close by...Lord; I hope I'm right..._

"Still no answer on his cell phone," Tony reported.

_And we don't even _know_ that he was in danger...but why would he say he was in trouble unless he meant it?_

They parked in a bus zone on M Street, across from the Metro station, putting the flasher lights on. "Look! There's a crowd around something." Ziva pointed to the intersection of M and New Jersey. They ran.

"Keep back, everyone, please," begged a nervous policeman on the scene, looking all of about 16 years old; his face made even younger by a scattering of pimples._ Probably came up from the detail at the ballpark construction site, and this may be his first real incident,_ Gibbs thought.

"No, please, stay back, sirs...oh. NCIS. S-Sorry," the young cop stammered; seeing their gear. "Oh, but this isn't your jurisdiction, sirs."

Gibbs stepped around him, and, looking down, caught his breath. "Yes, it is, Officer. That's my man."

He crouched beside Tim's still form and saw wounds on both sides of his head; the pooling blood now mixing with the oils of the street. Gibbs mentally crossed his fingers as he felt for a pulse; was hugely relieved to find one quickly.

"My truck, it stop in time. Did not hit him. God be praised," said a man wringing the hat in his hands. Indeed, the truck was only inches from Tim.

"Am-ambulance is coming now, sir," said the cop as one indeed pulled up.

Ziva was already scanning the area, now confident that her teammate would be in good hands. _Wounds on both sides of the head? How likely was that? If there indeed had been gunshots, where did the gunmen go?_

And Tony thought, _Why McGee? He doesn't do anything to annoy anyone, other than being a geek..._

"I'll go with the ambulance," Gibbs said to his team. "You two get statements, sweep the site, the usual."

"Okay, boss, but call us when there's news, will you?" Tony asked. "After all, it's not like we can go to the CVS and pick up a spare McGeek..." His tone was flippant, but the worry showed in his eyes.

- - - - -

"Aw, c'mon, boss; I'm fine! _Really_! Tell the doc you need me back at work!"

Gibbs crossed his arms and looked at his young team member with amused patience. Tim's head now sported bandages on both sides and he was mostly sitting up in the hospital bed. "The agency is not going to curl up and die without you, McGee. In the doc's opinion, you've got to stay overnight; so you stay overnight."

"But..." Tim beckoned Gibbs to come closer. "...I _really_ don't like _hospitals!_ No offense," he added to the doctor lazing at the wall.

"None taken."

"Then why do you spend so much time in them, McGee?" Gibbs couldn't help saying, not quite able to hold back the laugh.

Tony and Ziva swung in. "All done, boss. The nurse said McGee was – hey, you _are_ awake, Probie! Tell me, why did you decide to take a nap on a hot street in August? Feeling cold, or something?"

"I didn't want to wait to get back to work and nap at my desk like you do, Tony," Tim snapped.

"Ooooh, touchy; touchy..."

"Tony, tell Gibbs I need to go back to work," Tim pleaded.

Tony exchanged a glance with Gibbs. "Uh...sure, Probie. You just stand up and walk out that door, and we'll all go back."

"See? _Someone_, finally, is making _sense!"_ Tim swung his legs over the bed, stepped down...and promptly collapsed to the floor. "Ow," was all he said.

As he felt the draft on his back, he heard Ziva's chuckle. He knew her; knew that chuckle. Reddening, he threw a hand over the area where his hospital gown didn't close, and then accepted Tony's assistance in getting back into bed.

Gibbs eyed the doctor, who hadn't moved. The doctor only shrugged and said, "You special agents are an endless source of humor. I'm glad we get so many of you. I _live_ for moments like these." He walked out with twinkling eyes.

"McGee, you were unconscious for about an hour," Gibbs said. "They need to keep you here, under the microscope, to see if they find anything in that hard head of yours. No more arguments, now. We need to hear from you what happened."

Tim sighed, resigned. "There were two guys, dressed in black. They had high-powered guns. One was standing at the CVS, and the other across M Street. One, I guess, moved there to get into a better position to fire at me."

"But why _you,_ Probie? What did you do to tick them off?"

"_Nothing!_ They were speaking in German to each other and I heard one say something about it being a stroke of luck and this would be a great thing for the revolution. Whatever _that_ was about. Then...well, that's all I remember."

"The wound on the right side of your head is where a bullet grazed you," said Gibbs. "As for the wound on the left side..."

"That must have been the high-speed impact of your phone against your head, McGee," said Ziva, showing him the mangled remains of his cell phone. "I'd guess that a bullet hit it dead center. If you hadn't had your phone right up there, we'd have been picking you up in, ah, messy pieces off New Jersey Avenue."

"Oh, Abby will like this," Tony remarked, fingering the phone parts. "She's starting a museum in her lab of inanimate objects that serve their humans unusually well."

"Well, I _still_ don't understand why they shot at me," Tim sighed, and started to shake his head, then thought better of that as the room spun.

Ziva had looked away to check her notes on the witness statements. "Well, four people that I talked to said they saw the black-clothed men pointing at you before they got out their guns, and..." her voice trailed off as she did a double take. "Look, McGee; you're on _TV!"_

"_What?!"_

The set was tuned to CNN, the volume on mute. The scene was clearly of Tim, walking across a lush green lawn closely followed by men in suits and sunglasses. Tim wore a dark sports coat over a deep red shirt with a sober necktie, and had a certain..._bearing._

"_Probie?_ Is that the..._Rose Garden??_"

Tim could only stare. "That _can't_ be me. I've never been to the White House. And I don't own a shirt that color."

"Well, then, who the hell—"

"It sure _looks like you,_ McGee," said Gibbs, looking around for the remote control to turn up the volume.

The bottom of the screen then, finally showed an identifier. _HRH Prince Friedrich of Nordhavland at the White House._

The three turned and stared at Tim, back at the TV, and back at Tim. Gibbs swore. "I'll bet they speak German in Nordhavland. I'd better call the Director. The CIA's going to want to know about this... _Prince Timothy,"_ he added.


	3. Royalty

"Coming! _I'm coming!"_ Tim called over the insistent battering at his apartment door; stumbling drowsily and tying the belt on his robe as he walked. _Who could this be, and why won't they go away and let me sleep?!_ It was Tuesday, the day after his wounding. Tony had delivered him home from the hospital shortly after noon; it was now just 3 o'clock and Tim felt like he hadn't slept at all. His head ached. The hospital had prescribed only ibuprofen for the pain; it didn't seem adequate.

Tim opened the door and was surprised to find Gibbs standing there. "Can I come in?" his boss asked, and then did so without waiting for a reply.

"Two things," said Gibbs. "First, here's one of NCIS' tracphones. It's yours as a loaner until you're in shape to go buy a new phone of your own. Someone who's sick or injured shouldn't be without a phone. Leave it on, but don't run the minutes up too much.

"Second…" He looked Tim over; noticed his pallor and unsteadiness, and sighed. "I really don't want to put you through this, but you've got to come back to NCIS. Right now. So get dressed."

Tim's jaw dropped. "Boss, I – I would, but I feel really wretched. Tomorrow I probably could –"

"Sorry. Got to be today. We have to be there at 4 – command performance in front of the CIA."

"_The CIA?!"_

"Oh, and dress sharply, but…not too sharply. Wear a tie."

It was only then that Tim noticed that Gibbs wore a suit; dark and sober, though not quite men-in-blackish. Tim only gawped more.

"_Move it, _McGee!" Gibbs urged. "We only have 50 minutes now!" Tim moved.

- - - - -

They arrived at 3:53. The Director herself met them at the outer door to her office suite. "They're already here," she murmured, though the inner door was closed. She added rapidly, "No time for a full briefing. Remember this much: The correct address is _Your Royal Highness, _say it at the end of the sentence. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't be the one to initiate a handshake. Got that?...Oh, McGee; you look terrible. Sit down." She left the room and returned quickly with a damp, cool washcloth. He sponged the sweat off his face; willed some color back into it.

"I'm sorry for this, McGee, but they _insisted_…but when this is done I want you to take the rest of the week off. Administrative leave; it won't come out of your sick time."

Tim nodded, thinking with some excitement, _I'm going to meet royalty!_ This was both a pleasant and a scary thought. Better than the thought of, _I'm going to meet the CIA! Again._ That was both an _un_pleasant and a scary thought.

- - - - -

Jenny lead them in. Extra chairs had been brought in. Tim rapidly took stock of the people there; engaged in conversation with each other and not yet aware of the new arrivals: two obvious CIA types; two big, burly types who might be bodyguards; a middle-aged man; an attractive red-haired woman, and…

Jenny cleared her throat and they all turned.

"_Remarkable,"_ said the man Tim hadn't fixed a description to, who was getting to his feet, and slowly walking toward them. "It is most remarkable!"

Tim realized he was staring, and blinked a few times to make his expression appear more bland. It was like looking in a mirror! The man could have been his twin: same height, apparently same weight, hair the same shade of brown, eyes even the same green color. The hair had a slightly different cut, but would anyone have noticed? And the voice – the same timbre as his own. _Remarkable, indeed!_

"May I present two members of my staff, Your Royal Highness?" Jenny said. "This is special agent Timothy McGee, and his supervisor, special agent Jethro Gibbs. Gentlemen, His Royal Highness, Prince Friedrich of Nordhavland."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, agent McGee," said the prince, with a slight bow, "though I regret what I heard that you had to go through yesterday." The voice was English-accented; he must have been schooled in England at some point; though there was a flavor of German underneath. It carried a kindness that matched what Tim saw in the prince's eyes: not just a bearing, but a sign of a genuinely nice character.

Tim's mind raced frantically through anything he'd ever learned about protocol. _I'm not his subject; I don't bow._ "A pleasure, Your Royal Highness," he said simply, and smiled. The prince smiled back.

Jenny's introductions continued. "This is Steffen Bartulph, Duke of _Vogelweise_, advisor to His Highness_—" _that, evidently, was the middle-aged man. "—Miss Kerstin Skjold, His Highness' aide—" and that was the redhead.

_Huh. Name sounds Swedish, rather than German..._ Tim thought insome wonder as the young woman gave him a friendly smile. He couldn't help smiling back.

"—and agents Nylman and White, of the CIA." She didn't introduce the two mountain-sized men sitting quietly at the back; they were likely bodyguards, who for most purposes, existed only as nameless, hulking shadows.

"I'll fill you NCIS folks in," said agent Nylman. "His Royal Highness is in Washington on a state visit, on behalf of his father, the King. Nordhavland, being located on the Baltic Sea, is a strategic location for U.S. and NATO interests, with its natural gas fields, oil, minerals..."

The prince put a hand on his arm. "If I may, agent Nylman...I would rather be, ah, upfront?—" He glanced at Miss Skjold, who nodded. _His English advisor. Ah!_ "—with our NCIS friends." Prince Friedrich ignored any slight winces by the CIA men. "Madam Director, gentlemen, my small country has been a peaceful monarchy for nearly 700 years, interrupted only by the various Polish-Swedish wars. That is well-known. What is not so well-known outside our borders is that opposing factions in Nordhavland have, in the last few years, become organized and violent; terrorists, as you may say. Some are calling for a revolution, overthrowing the monarchy and giving the people...I do not know what they propose in its place; they may not even know themselves. A socialist land, perhaps. Or their own dictatorship. They are certainly a minority, but they are becoming dangerous.

"I would never have needed bodyguards when I was at university in England. I went where I pleased, I, ah, 'hung out' with my mates, we drank in pubs, and no one ever bothered me. But times have changed, and unfortunately—"

Agent Nylman jumped back in. "We are in a friendly status with all the Baltic nations. We can't afford to have a weak link in the chain, to have Nordhavland's monarchy be overthrown. So His Highness' interests here are our own."

"And, sadly, you, NCIS, are involved, because yesterday an attempt was made on the life of your agent, merely because he looked like me and someone thought he was me." He gave Tim a sympathetic look. "I am delighted that his..." he thought, and then leaned back to Kerstin Skjold and said, _"Verletzungen?" _ She – and Tim, who spoke without thinking – said _"Injuries"_. The prince continued. "—his injuries were no worse..." his eyes then went wide. "Do you speak German, Agent McGee?"

"Er, I studied it in school, but haven't used it in awhile, Your Highness."

The CIA men gave each other a long look. White eyed Tim. "McGee. You ever do any acting?"

Being largely a truthful man, Tim blushed and said, "I was a stick of butter once. In a school play, when I was six. I was the tallest person in my class, and the theme was produce –" Gibbs put a hand on Tim's arm to cut off his babbling.

The CIA men looked appalled, which made the Director look all the more amused. The prince smiled broadly. "Ah, I know that experience. I was a...a magpie in a school play, when I was about the same age. My lines were, '_Caw! Caw!'_ I rehearsed them for weeks. My mother said I made a very good magpie, but I could not be one when I grew up; I had to be king." With a smile, he sighed.

" '_Stick of butter',"_ agent White muttered. "Okay, what we propose is this: We have a natural double here for His Highness. One who even speaks German. We make them look even more alike, and McGee can be the public face of Nordhavland, doing all the ribbon-cutting ceremonies and goodwill stuff, while His Highness does the treaty negotiations behind the scenes. We'll see if McGee draws out the terrorists; he can deal with them, being a special agent. We start now, run until 8 at night, and go every day, 8 to 8, until we're ready to roll. Sound good?" He looked around.

Gibbs stood up. "I think it sounds _nuts! _ My man just got out of the hospital a few hours ago. He's supposed to be _resting,_ not playacting!"

"Normally, I would agree with you, Gibbs," said Nylman with utter insincerity. "But this is a matter of national security, and a matter of protection to our esteemed guest..."

"Oh, it's _always_ 'national security' with you, isn't it?" Gibbs snapped.

"Gentlemen! Please!" said the Director, giving Tim a glance from the corner of her eye. "Can we at least postpone this until tomorrow morning?"

"There's no time to lose, Director," said White. "I say we start now."

Tim felt his fate was out of his hands. He only nodded. _At least I'll get to brush up my German...but I wish I'd paid more attention when the teacher was telling me how to act like a good stick of butter..._

- - - - -

An hour of the basics followed. Gibbs, Jenny, and the CIA men disappeared into a conference room, and the prince's bodyguards stationed themselves at the two doors to Jenny's inner office. That left Tim, the prince, the duke, and Miss Skjold in the inner office. It turned out that the duke was a master of protocol and a natural director, and, armed with a camera, took endless pictures of Tim and the prince walking, turning, and making basic gestures and movements. Tim quickly tired but did not complain, feeling it was his job to keep up. Eventually, though, weariness caught up with him, and he stumbled. In concern, the others helped him to a chair.

"It really is unfair, them making you do this so soon after the, ah shooting," the prince said.

"No, it's okay, Your Highness," Tim wheezed. "It's my job."

The prince made a show of looking around. "We are alone. I invite my friends to call me Friedrich," he said with a broad smile.

"Or 'Freddy'. We also call him that," said the redhead. "And I'm Kerstin..." It sounded musical coming from her lips. _Shess-tin._ "...and this is Steffen."

"My uncle," Friedrich said fondly. "Kerstin is my ah, distant?...cousin. We, ah, keep things in the family," he grinned.

Tim knew this privilege of informality he'd been given would only extend to small groupings like these. He could live with that. "And I'm Tim," he said.

"Tim," said Friedrich, extending his hand. They shook.

- - - - -

They broke for dinner at 6. Tim politely declined their invitation to join them, saying he had desk work to do. Gibbs looked at him curiously but said nothing.

In fact, all Tim wanted to do was nap, and when the group left for a quick sushi meal, he went to his desk. Tony and Ziva had long since left for the day, and the squad room's pace seemed slower. The second shift teams were on, over at the other side of the room. Tim barely noticed them as he put his head down on his desk. _Gibbs will wake me when they get back..._

But in fact it was another had on his shoulder that woke him about half an hour into his flat dreams: Ducky's. "Timothy—I see you're bleeding through one of your bandages...no, it looks like both bandages. Not a big cause for worry," he said, seeing the alarm on Tim's face, "but it should be taken care of, nonetheless. Come with me to Autopsy."

Once there, Ducky frowned as he talked and tended to the wounds. "Your heartbeat is up. You're overworked and overstressed, causing your wounds to open and bleed a little. Now why, in heaven's name, are you even here today? I heard about your incident yesterday. Is it true that you resemble a German prince?"

"He's actually from Nordhavland, and yes, I do. They're training me to be his double. Isn't that called a _doppelgaenger?"_

"Hmmm. In a sense. Ask your prince for the true meaning. I met royalty once. A delightful person."

Tim thought Ducky might mean Queen Victoria, not really being sure of Ducky's age, but wisely didn't say so. "What was it like, meeting the queen?"

"The queen? No, dear boy, I met her father, the king. King George VI. I was just a lad. Remember this about royalty; they're really just people, like you and I. Now I hope you're on your way home..."

Tim couldn't suppress a yawn. "No, I'm here until 8. I'm to undergo prince-training 12 hours a day for the foreseeable future. It's probably the most awesome assignment I've ever had!"

"That's _insane._ I shall speak to Jennifer about this."

Yawning again, Tim said, "Won't do any good. It's the CIA's idea. If the Director tells me to do something, well, that's what I'm paid to do."

Ducky snorted. "They don't pay you to fall over from exhaustion."

"I'll be _fine._ This is_ fun._ I'm sure tomorrow I'll feel a whole lot better, after I've had some sleep. Oops, it's almost 7. I'd better get back upstairs. Thanks, Ducky!"

"You're welcome, Your Highness." Ducky watched him go, looking sad. One thing he really hated was to see young agents go and go until they wore themselves into the ground. It was dangerous, it was uncalled for (from his perspective), and yet it happened all too often. And in this little flight of fancy Tim seemed to be having of impersonating royalty, a storybook dream, he was traipsing down that same, too-tempting path, ignoring the perils...


	4. Mimic

When Tim entered her lab early Wednesday morning, Abby practically flew at him. "Timmy! Oh, Timmy! I'm so glad to see you! I'd heard you were injured! Oh, your poor head! Does it hurt much? Is it true that someone tried to assassinate you? Didn't they offer you sick time off work? Or comp time? Tony says you're secretly King of the Leprechauns; King Timothy; is that true? Aren't you a little tall to be a leprechaun? Are you going to be famous? Do I need to curtsey now when I see you?..._Answer me,_ Tim!"

He paused. "Somewhat. Sort of. Sort of. No. No! Yes. I doubt it. A hug will do."

She digested this, then smiled. "You've been practicing!"

"Yes, I'm trying to improve my memory." He reached into the pocket of his suit coat. "Tony said you might want this for your new museum."

She lovingly handled the shattered pieces of what had been his cell phone. "Oh, _Tim!"_ she breathed. "This is _spectacular!_ Your loyal phone gave its life so that you might live...!" Her lips trembled a little. "It will have a place of _honor_ in my museum!"

Abby hugged him, which he thought was a nice way to start his day.

- - - - -

The prince sat calmly, drinking coffee, and reading _USA Today_ in the Director's inner office. Suddenly he looked up. "I would like to go downstairs, to speak with Agent McGee for a moment, before he comes upstairs." Only the duke, Kerstin, the two bodyguards, and the director were in evidence yet. One of the bodyguards rose. "No, please sit, Rudolf," Prince Friedrich said. "I am certain to be safe here, in a building with so many special agents."

"I would hope so," Jenny said, smiling. "You are welcome to visit the squad room, Your Highness."

He made a slight bow to her, and departed, alone.

Tim's desk was not hard to find – Tim had mentioned its location yesterday – but no one else was there yet. Friedrich sat in Tim's chair; resisted the impulse to spin it in, for he was not at home. He noticed a small magnet clinging to a metal drawer. On it, a 1950s-style smiling woman held a china cup of coffee. The legend read: _I haven't had my coffee yet. Don't make me kill you._ Friedrich smiled. This was a man after his own heart.

"McGee! You're in early, aren't you? I thought you were taking more time off."

Friedrich looked up at the speaker; a striking young woman with long, dark hair that rippled below her shoulders, and eyes the color of caramels. She was dressed casually, but exuded an inner strength.

She then saw his NCIS visitors' badge and the fine cut of his suit, and realized her mistake. "Oh, I – I'm sorry. I thought you were –"

He rose and bowed. "The mistake was mine. I did not mean to, ah, pass myself off as Agent McGee. I am Friedrich of Nordhavland, at your service, _gnaedige Frauelein_ (gracious miss)."

Ziva was never flustered; ever. Until now. "Ah...ah...it's an honor to meet you, Your Royal Highness." _Was that the correct address?_ "My name is Ziva. Ziva David."

"_Frauelein_ David. You are also a special agent of NCIS, yes?"

"Not exactly. I am a Mossad officer; here on a liaison program." She smiled; couldn't help smiling. The prince had ceased looking like McGee to her. Instead, she saw his strong will and quiet, but forceful, bearing. He seemed kind and was certainly charismatic.

"You are Israeli, then. My country has entered negotiations with yours for a, ah, 'brain drop' program."

Ziva smiled more. She'd been in this fix too many times. "I'm not sure that's the right expression. I'd thought at first it was a 'raindrop' program, but that made no sense. Perhaps the expression is 'brain swap'. As in, swap people of high skills."

"Yes! I think that is the term. We give visas for a few years to some of your people, your scientists, and you do the same...I have trouble with the English expressions, sometimes. Do you?"

"All the time, Your Highness. Though I sometimes think it's the _Americans_ who make no sense." They both laughed.

Gibbs appeared. "Your Highness? It's almost 8."

With a bow, the prince said, "Until we meet again, _Frauelein _Officer David," then left with Gibbs.

Ziva still had that heart-melting smile in her mind as she sat down, humming. _So _that_ is royalty..._

- - - - -

Since the Director needed her office back, Friedrich, Steffen, Kerstin and Tim took another large room on the second floor. Tim turned on the room's video projection system, and the four of them watched the tapes from yesterday; stopping them frequently to comment. There were many trifling, but possibly important, things to notice. For one thing, Tim pointed out that Friedrich would ball his left hand into a fist when he was trying to concentrate on something while he walked – an action that Friedrich didn't even know he was doing. _Thank heavens we're both left-handed,_ Tim thought. _It would be that much harder to try to reverse all his actions._

They went on, reviewing the tapes over and over. By 10:30 Tim was already on his fourth cup of coffee; determined that the caffeine would do for him what it was supposed to do. Then, knowledge in memory, Tim tried mimicking Friedrich's movements, under the direction of Steffen, who was filming again. Later they would watch the tapes and critique them. Kerstin volunteered to upload them to YouTube; Friedrich volunteered to draft her for the Nordhavland Navy, of which he was commander.

"You have a natural acting ability, Young Tim," said Steffen. "Perhaps you should have gone further with it than being a stick of butter."

Tim only smiled. He'd never thought he had any acting talent at all...but then, he hadn't tried to do any acting since he was a teenager and clumsy at everything. _If Life had taken a different turn..._

Lunchtime came, and even the fifth cup of coffee didn't help. Tim was desperate for sleep and begged off a lunch expedition with them. When the others left, he went to a smaller conference room next door, and, leaving the lights off, stretched out in a very comfortable leather chair; falling asleep instantly.

It seemed only moments later when the lights came on. It was Gibbs, who bore a sandwich and a soda, and sat down next to him. "I was wondering where you were. Eat this."

"Thanks, boss, but I'd rather sleep..."

"I know, but you need food to keep going. Two more days, and then you can sleep all weekend." Gibbs gave him a long, studious look; one that made Tim uncomfortable. It was as if Gibbs was reading him below his skin. "Are you going to make it to the weekend?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, sure! This is so much fun!"

"I didn't ask if it was fun. Who hasn't dreamed of being royalty? I asked if you can hold together."

"I can do it. It's _my job_ to do it."

Gibbs rose, and said in irritation, "That's the CIA talking. You work for _NCIS,_ not them. Remember that!" He went out.

_But only _I_ can be the prince's double. It's up to me. I won't back down. I won't give up. I won't let Freddy down._

- - - - -

The afternoon was spent in more mimicking. Tim and Friedrich paced the room together until Tim had the posture and the movements down pat. He handled objects the way Friedrich did; practiced facial expressions (fortunately, not too different from his own); met people's eyes the way the prince did; waved the way he did.

So far they were free of CIA interference, though that couldn't last forever.

- - - - -

On and on, as Wednesday slid into Thursday. German lessons. Dictation lessons. Lessons in Friedrich's accent. Nordhavland history, customs, modern society. Protocol lessons. Current Nordhavland slang – not that the prince would use it, but Tim should know it when he heard it. The royal family history, the direct line of which they insisted he memorize back four generations – fortunately, the families weren't large. Nordhavland's natural resources and trading. The prince's hobbies, likes, and dislikes. Even the name of an old girlfriend the prince had dated for a few years, before she broke it off. Someone might ask about her.

Tim now required all the coffee and Diet Coke he could drink to keep going. _Just one more day, and then I'll be free for two..._

- - - - -

Tim voluntarily had lunch on Thursday; burgers from the McDonald's. Gibbs and the rest of his team were out, so he and Kerstin ate at Tim's desk in the squad room; a break from the windowless room upstairs. "So how long have you been working for Freddy?" Tim asked her.

"Since I finished at university. The family had long made it known that the job would be mine if I wanted it. Freddy and I have always been good friends; we played together as children. He is only a year older than me."

"But – are you from Nordhavland? Your speech and your name sound different..."

"You are, ah, perceptive, Tim. I live in Sweden, although I hold citizenship in both countries. My name is Swedish. I lived in Nordhavland for seven or eight years while growing up. It's quite a beautiful country."

"Your red hair, up in braids like that. You remind me of...what is her name?"

"Pippi Langstrumf...you say 'Longstocking'." She laughed. "Yes, she was my heroine when I was a child. Sort of a nine-year-old Swedish Wonder Woman."

"She was so strong she could lift her pony over her head. I admired that," said Tim, and added hurriedly, "I read the books to my little sister when she was small." Over her knowing laugh, he changed the subject. "But you're Swedish, and yet a cousin to Freddy."

"Yes, of course." At his surprised look, she said, "Tim, I have heard that many Americans can trace their ancestors to several countries, isn't that so? Well, that's the case with my family, and several other royal families as well. Quite often royalty had to go outside its country's borders to find a marriage partner – or sometimes that was done for political reasons. Our King – of Sweden, I mean; Carl XVI Gustaf – his family, the Bernadottes, came from France when Karl Johan took the throne in 1810. And Queen Silvia is from Germany. So we are all of mixed nationalities."

"So are you and Freddy really distant cousins?"

"Oh, no; he just says that. We are...let me see, you would call it 'second cousins once removed'.

Tim tried to remember how that worked out, and gave up. "How far down the line are you to inherit the throne?"

"What a question! I try not to think of that." she laughed again. "It's _your_ job to keep Freddy safe so that I don't get any closer to the throne!"

- - - - -

Friday Tim awoke, aching, which even a hot shower couldn't wash away. He took more ibuprofen, tried to shake the drowsiness from his brain, and came into work with the largest cup of coffee he could find.

But he seemed to have built up a tolerance to the caffeine. He couldn't shake the pain, and felt little moments of dizziness, and also moments when he totally zoned out. He could feel his body wanting to shake; he forced it not to show. _Just get through this day; it's only 12 hours..._

At mid-afternoon break, he went down to his desk, finding the squad room vacant. Tony was seen heading for the elevator. Tim started to get some mints from his desk drawer, when suddenly the room spun around him and he felt enveloped in a giant sack. As was perhaps inevitable, he fell to the floor, unseen, and there laid still.


	5. Collapse

"_Gibbs! McGee has collapsed! Ducky's on his way!"_

"Ziva! _Ziva!"_ But Ziva had already clicked off her phone; never one to waste words. She was also not one to exaggerate a situation. Gibbs pocketed his phone and tore down the stairs from the second floor. _Damn damn damn damn damn!_

He found Ziva and Tony crouching. "C'mon, Probie; wake up! C'mon, this isn't funny! C'mon..."

Gibbs heard Tony's desperation; knew how he must be feeling. Injuries in the field were one thing: obvious, bandage-able, straight-forward. Sudden illness, however, arrived like an extra-dimensional monster; appearing in clouds of chaos and carrying no clue as to origin or remedy.

"Let me through, Anthony," said Ducky, giving him a firm shove.

A tumult made Gibbs aware of a growing crowd, including the Director, the prince and his entourage, and the CIA goons. "You don't _all_ need to be here!" Gibbs raged.

"Easy, Jethro; that's not helping," Jenny murmured.

He ignored her. "Ziva, what happened?"

"I don't know. I went to get a bottle of water, and I'd just reentered the squad room when I saw him go down. One moment he was standing at his desk, the next..."

Tim was clearly out, stone-cold. Ducky had a good idea already of the likely problem, and when Tim failed to respond to gentle nudges, Ducky wafted crushed ammonium carbonate under Tim's nose. Presently Tim was coughing and struggling to sit up.

"Timothy, this charade has gone too far," Ducky said sternly. "All week you've fought it, but you _need rest._ You're suffering from prostration, which can lead to serious trouble. Now I am _ordering _you to go home immediately and get proper sleep. Any objections, Jennifer?" His tone was about as harsh as any they'd ever heard from him.

Jenny shook her head, her eyes still wide. "Go, McGee. Someone will drive you..."

"Now, wait a minute. _I _ have an objection," the CIA moron named Nylman said from the edge of the crowd. "It's not even 3 o'clock yet. Our deal was that we worked until 8 each night. I should have known that you NCIS wimps couldn't go the mile..."

Gibbs grabbed Tony's arm; held him back because he looked ready to tear Nylman apart. He left Ziva alone, though; if she was to act on her impulses, heaven help anyone who stood in her way.

"McGee was _gracious_ enough – I'll log you on to an online dictionary if you don't know the word's meaning – to do this work even though he had been declared incapacitated," Jenny said, each word bearing the weight of a bomb. "But you're asking too much. _No more until he has a chance to recover!"_

"Director, I will call in people higher than you can reach on a stepladder, if I have to," Nylman said, inches from her face.

"_Bring them on,"_ Jenny hissed, looking like a lioness who has sized up her prey, and felt confident in her strength.

"Oh, dear me," said the prince suddenly, leaning over and clutching his leg. "I am afraid I have to stop for the day. My leg...it is an old, ah...football injury."

"It comes and goes suddenly," the duke added, sympathetically. "His Highness must go rest when this happens."

Tim was still sneezing and coughing a little as the residual ammonia continued to irritate his nasal passages. "Is there anything I can do to help you, Your Highness?" Friedrich turned a glinting eye his way, and Tim, then noting his teammates' slight smiles, felt a trifle embarrassed that he hadn't caught on sooner.

Nylman and White muttered to each other and walked out. "Can you stand up, Tim?" Gibbs asked.

"I don't...well, maybe..." With Gibbs' and Tony's help he lurched to his feet, but his knees promptly folded. He bit back a curse, fearing it would be unseemly in the prince's presence, and then blacked out again.

"Hospital, I'm afraid," Ducky sighed.

"Look on the bright side," said Tony. "Maybe he'll get again that doctor who finds special agents funny."

- - - - -

Tim spent the weekend dozing in the quiet of the hospital; even the routine visits by the medical personnel seemed quick, nominal, hushed. The doctor – it _was_ the same, amused fellow – encouraged would-be visitors to stay away. So Tim was surprised to awaken at one point on Saturday afternoon to find Friedrich sitting beside his bed, reading a German newspaper.

The prince set the paper down and smiled. "They could hardly refuse your twin brother admittance," he said to Tim's unspoken question, but said it in a comically thick American accent.

"I wasn't aware my twin was John Wayne," Tim laughed.

"It is the only American accent I can do. Pardon, I can do Mickey Mouse, also, but it seemed less appropriate."

"How's the leg? The football injury? And is that American football, or soccer?"

Friedrich's eyes twinkled. "I did have a football injury once, you know. My aide, then, had been called away, and I tripped when getting out of the visitor's box to get another beer."

"So what brings you here today, Freddy?"

"What brings...? Oh, why am I here? I have been trying to speak with you for days, but there is always someone else around... First, I must tell you, while we are alone, what to expect next week. This will not, ah, take long.

"Tim...beginning Monday afternoon you will have a week full of appearances. There is a reception at the Teutonic Guild, a visit to a children's hospital, a ball at the Hessian Society, and much more; Steffen and Kerstin have the schedule. It is very demanding. Are you certain that you want to go through all of this?"

"Of course," Tim said without hesitation.

"The pressure will be enormous. You must be me all day long. If you were discovered…"

"I won't be."

"How can you be certain of that?"

"Positive thinking. It's the only satisfactory outcome to the assignment, so that's the only thing I'll allow to happen."

Friedrich shook his head. "I do not believe I could do your job. At least, with mine, I can sometimes make an excuse and get out of a difficult situation…That is the other thing I wanted to ask you. Tim, I am curious. What made you choose to become a special agent?"

"I wanted to help people. This job happened to come along, and it looked good, so I took it."

"Yes, I know, many people have stories like that. But I understand you have great computer talents, and yet you must spend so much time instead chasing criminals with a gun…"

"But someone has to do it, and if I can lend something to the cause, I'm willing. I enjoy solving puzzles with the help of computers. I don't much care to use my gun, but I do use it if I have to. Isn't that what it's all about, Freddy? Deciding what's on the side of Good, and fighting for that? It sure beats fighting on the other side. Or worse, doing nothing at all, and thereby letting the other side win."

"It is ever so, yes. I try to fight for Good, as well; I have a duty to my people, and someday – a day far away, I hope – I will be King and will find the fight even greater. May I find the strength to fight on.

"Are the people who want a revolution on the side of Evil? There is no, ah, absolute answer. It would be simplistic to say that they were. But I cannot consider that a person who kills another for an ideological cause, or allows innocent people to be harmed, can ever be fighting on the side of Good."

"You asked about my carrying a gun," Tim said quietly. "You've made me think. Maybe I do it because the fight is so important, but it's hard to fight without weapons when the other side is going to be armed. We don't _want_ to go to battle, but when we must, we must."

"We think alike, Tim," Friedrich said, gazing out the window. "I am glad to have met you, and gladder still to call you my friend. When this is all over, you must come visit me in Nordhavland."

Tim smiled and nodded. "I'd like that."

"But first, you must get rest and get well, and get through this week. I shall let you sleep, now, my friend. I am informed that you will go home tomorrow. Monday will start a busy week for us, so be prepared!"


	6. First Event

It was half past 11 on Monday morning when Tim, the prince, and the prince's entourage appeared at NCIS. The prince had pocketed his NCIS visitor's badge before entering the squad room. Tim knew he personally might catch hell for asking Friedrich to do so, but thought it would be worth it.

When they were spotted, jaws dropped, almost audibly.

"_McGee? Your High_–_?"_ Gibbs, Tony and Ziva stared, while the Director, who happened to be speaking with Gibbs' team in the squad room, smiled in delight.

Tim and Friedrich were now a matched set; identical in all but their elegantly tailored suits. With the bandages now gone, makeup to conceal the small scar on his face, a new haircut from a top hairdresser to match Friedrich's, a loan of a suit from the prince, and fine Italian leather shoes, Tim radiated European class from head to toe...that is, whichever the person who was Tim did.

"Well, I'll be jiggered," said Gibbs, walking around the two of them, slowly, looking for any clue, but not finding one.

"Can we...test you two?" asked Jenny.

"Yeah, before you run off to do a Doublemint gum commercial?" put in Tony, earning a headslap from Gibbs, who then said, "Sorry, Your Highness. Old American custom."

"I find that most curious," said one of the identical duo. "Does it happen often?"

"_Aha!"_ Tony said. "This, then, is our _McGeek!"_ He jumped forward, and pulled the other twin by the expensive lapels.

"I beg your pardon? And I do not understand... 'McGeek'?" said the second twin, in just the same British-accent-with-German-undercurrent as the first.

Tony let go of the lapels and backed up, red-faced, head swiveling between both as he stammered an apology and stumbled a bit. Ziva doubled over with laughter.

Gibbs crossed his arms and smiled. "I have to admit, I wasn't sure that you could pull it off, McGee, but you've got me convinced...whichever one you are."

"Ah, but there is one more test," said Ziva. "Not that you'll face this out in the field, but I have to know..." She picked up her phone. "Abby? Can you come upstairs for a minute?"

"No way!" said Tony. "I've spent more hours with Probie than she has– now _stop that, all of you! You know what I mean!_ So if _I_ can't recognize the Probster, _Abby_ can't, either!"

Lab coat still on, ponytails bouncing as she trotted, Abby came up to them. "What's up, Ziva?"

"Abby, which one of these is McGee?"

She looked at the two of them, and said right off, "Well, he's done something with his hair, but of course _this_ is our Tim." She hooked her arm into that of the first speaker, who looked down at her benignly.

"But are you sure that's not His Royal Highness, Prince Friedrich of Nordhavland?"

" 'Course it isn't. It's obvious to me." She looked around, bewildered. They were all just as bewildered – _how could she know?_ But then they all smiled when the twin on her arm kissed her forehead in a typical Tim fashion, and the other twin then reattached his visitor's badge.

The duke tutted. "Come, Your Highness; Agent McGee; we must do a last-minute briefing before Agent McGee leaves for the Heyer German Club meeting."

"Eliza Doolittle," Gibbs said, "welcome to Society."

- - - - -

The team, Jenny, the prince and Kerstin watched the large plasma screens as Tim, with the duke and his bodyguards, were escorted into the meeting room for the Heyer German Club; which despite its simple name ranked among the older, wealthier clubs in the D.C. area. The camera eyes were mounted on the clothing of the duke and Rudolf and Franz, the bodyguards. Tim and Steffen wore earpieces; linked to each other and to Kerstin, who would prompt Tim on any language or other issues.

Gibbs and Jenny were also on the links. "You're doing well, Your Highness," Gibbs said. They had agreed that they would call Tim that to help him keep in character.

"Your Highness? We're ready to start the treaty talks, if you are," said a man in the doorway. With his bodyguards off with Tim, for show, it had been agreed that the talks would be held within the safe walls of NCIS. Reluctantly, Friedrich tore himself away from the sight of the screens.

"_It is a great honor to have you here, Your Highness,"_ a woman was saying to Tim.

"_The pleasure is mine, madame,"_ Tim said, nailing Friedrich's bow.

"Looking good, Your Highness," Jenny said to him.

"On your left – that's John Rexhausen," Kerstin said to Tim. "You met him at the Oktoberfest Ball three, no, two years ago at the palace. He is, ah, old money; visits Nordhavland once or twice a year. Owns a chemical plant there."

"_Family?"_ Tim murmured.

Kerstin tapped through her laptop. "Wife, uh, Greta. Two children, grown."

"_Herr Rexhausen! A pleasure to see you again!"_ Tim said, with another bow.

"_And the same with you, Your Royal Highness. My Greta still talks about that ball."_

"_Yes, the Oktoberfest Ball is one of my favorite events. My regards to your dear wife."_ He moved on.

"This is like a soap opera," Tony remarked to the room. " 'Days of Our Kingdoms', or something like that."

"You're standing closer to him. You have my permission to hit him," Gibbs offered Jenny.

"I'll save that for a rainy day," Jenny said. "Your Highness, any sign that anything looks amiss?"

Tim was greeting another club member and so didn't answer right away. When he turned to the table with the punch bowl, he said softly, _"Security here is far too light, but so far no sign of trouble."_ In addition to Friedrich's bodyguards, "the prince" had the protection of two Secret Service agents, as befitted a visiting dignitary.

"How are Tweedledum and Tweedledee behaving?" Gibbs asked, not seeing the agents around.

"_Their names are Ocasio and Shaw, and they're actually pretty nice people. They're at two of the four entrances. The bodyguard Franz is at a third. That leaves one entrance unguarded; I'm keeping half an eye on it."_

"Who the hell approved such a set-up for a dignitary?" Gibbs snapped.

"_Couldn't be helped, apparently. The club's building had a water leak yesterday; this move to a hotel ballroom was a last-minute thing."_

"We know. Still doesn't make it acceptable, though."

Ziva stood. "Gibbs – I can, ah, run over there, be a guard –"

"Thanks, but you'd never make it in time. His Highness is due to leave there in...21 minutes for the next event; the children's hospital."

Tim had already turned from the punchbowl, and Kerstin was alert. "The grey-haired woman in blue coming toward you is Ilse Rosenthal; she's a distant cousin of the family, but moved to America before you were born so she doesn't know you well. You last saw her...I'm sorry; I don't know when. Beware, she will probably speak German to you."

Tim took a deep breath; suddenly less than confident in his ability to put the words where they belonged in a sentence. Fortunately, Steffen rescued him.

"_My dear Ilse!"_ Steffen said in German, stepping forward. _"How long has it been? You look like a girl; how do you do it?!"_

"_Such a flatterer, Steffen! I am well over 60, as you know. And you, young Friedrich; when I last saw you you were still growing into yourself. All long legs and endless appetite!"_

"_I still have the appetite, Ilse. And the long legs."_ Simple sentences that Tim could manage._ "A delight to see you again."_

"You must speak again with your host, and then you and Steffen should leave. It'll take the agents and the bodyguards about five minutes to be sure that the ah, coast is clear," said Kerstin.

The people in the room started ignoring the screens; nothing of interest would happen until the group arrived at the children's hospital. Tony was mumbling to Ziva, "There must be _something_ better than this on another station..." when suddenly a roar filled the room, making those on headsets throw them off with a cry. A flash of light, bright as a sun, ate the plasma screens, and then the screens fell black.

"Oh, no. Oh, no..."

They didn't let the horror hold them for more than a second. "McGee? McGee? _Answer me!"_ "Steffen? Are you there?" "No answer on McGee's cell phone, boss." "Do we know for sure that he's had an opportunity to replace it yet?" "I don't know." "What was the phone number of the tracphone he was using? Or did he return that already?" _"I don't know!"_ "Get that audio back! And the video!" "No response on their end!" "Kerstin, what's the duke's cell phone number?" "I've already tried calling it, but there's no answer. He turns it off before he goes into an event."

The CIA agents had come in at a run when they heard the uproar. "Do you have the phone numbers for those Secret Service guys?" Gibbs asked desperately after the briefest of explanations.

"What do we look like, a phone book?!" White said, looking just as distressed as Gibbs.

"This is the Secret Services' scene," said Nylman. "I'll call their HQ, and..."

"Any videocams hooked in in that neighborhood? Anything we can tap into?" Jenny wondered.

Ziva already had a map up. "A Shell gas station across the street."

"Wait a minute. You can't just tap into...you don't even know what happened," said White.

Ziva had another source up, and swallowed the lump in her throat before she spoke. "Police report. Explosion in the parking lot of the hotel. One, maybe two cars blown up..."


	7. Got to Get Out

_Blackness. Smoke. Choking fumes. Heat – horrible heat. All soundless, as if he was enveloped in a silent movie. Pain – not much of it, but it was there. _

_Fire! Got to get out...!_

Tim pushed against the clasp of the seat belt; fought it until it reluctantly released him from its care. _What happened? How long was I out?_ The door wouldn't open. Through watering eyes and his persistent need to cough he saw that the limo he was in was mangled and smoking from largely unseen fires now feeding greedily at the bottoms of the seat cushions. _Got to get out...!_ Something must have exploded. A bomb? He tried saying his name; heard nothing. The percussion must have deafened him.

No one else in the limo was moving. "Steffen! We've got to get out of here! _This car could blow!" _He couldn't hear his words; hoped he was indeed speaking out loud. There was no response to his shaking of the duke. Tim prayed that the kindly man was still alive.

_Got to get_ out!_ Even if the limo doesn't explode, the toxic fumes from the burning seats will kill us._ Through the smoke he could barely make out the window at his side, but he saw that it was partially broken. Tim swiveled and kicked at the window with both feet, once, twice, the hammering snapping at his ankles, until most of the glass fell out. He wrapped the duke's fedora around his hand and punched out the remaining glass; wincing a bit as some glass got through the hat. Then he squeezed through the window and dropped to the ground on wobbly feet.

He had vague images of people running, in and out of the billowing smoke, but these he ignored. He could see more smoke, and flames, from the car nearby. _Whose was that? _He couldn't help everyone at once; didn't know yet what had happened. He couldn't be in both places at once; his primary concern had to be those who were in his car.

With all his might he tugged at the too-hot door handle of the too-hot limo, and finally the broken door yawed open and hung at a sad angle; he could feel its damaged parts protesting their ill-treatment. Sliding across the glass-littered seat, Tim unfastened Steffen's seat belt and then pulled him out of the car. A breath on Tim's cheek told him, blessedly, that the duke still lived. The man was no lightweight, but Tim carried him about 40 feet away; set him down, and ran back. There were other people to help...

The limo was heating up and smoking more. The bodyguards were in the front seat: Rudolf at the wheel; Franz in the seat beside him; both unconscious if still alive. The very real possibility of imminent death overrode all other concerns of any other injuries the men might have sustained: Tim had to get them _out._

The front of the limo had sustained more damage than the back. The driver's door would not, _would not_ open, despite all of Tim's pulling. But he found that the passenger door was just a little stubborn; when it inched open, he put his side to it and pushed. _Man, that's hot!_ He quickly was pulling Franz, all 250 pounds or so of him, out, and then dragging him a safe distance away, where other people rushed to Franz' aid.

Rudolf was a more difficult problem. Tim had to drag him over limo's gear shift, and Rudolf was also heavier than Franz. Finally Tim had him out; struggling not to drop him; dragging him away, away, until other hands took over.

_Hot. Hot. Too smoky..._ Tim thought he saw flashes and backed away. An omen of the limo's explosion? He fought the hands that tried to grab him; sometimes saw mouths moving but he could hear no sound from them. He blinked and blinked; willing sight to stay in his irritated eyes. _The other car...!_

It was a little ahead of the limo in the lot. Had it pulled out, or was it blown to there? While Tim's limo had been parked over two head-to-head spaces, the car must have been parked head-in. Flames licked at the windows of the car. Grateful that he'd hung onto the duke's fedora, to be used again like a pot holder, Tim approached the car. Shaw, at the wheel, was clearly dead, and Tim choked back a sob. He ran to the other side of the car, and reaching through the flames, pulled Ocasio out through the now-glassless window; then let someone take him. Again grabbing hands. _Leave me alone!_ A thick mustardy coat with reflective yellow stripes—a firefighter?—tackled him about the waist. Tim couldn't hear what hear what the man said; saw only the concern in his eyes over the moving lips. With more strength than he knew he had, Tim broke free and darted out of reach, and was relieved that the man did not follow.

_Six._ That was it in their party. _Poor Shaw...!_ Tim ran, as if by an instinct; saw others running, too, though he didn't know why. Then he was lifted up and just as suddenly slammed to the ground as his limo finally blew.

After a minute or so, he got up, and lurched away. No one was paying attention to him, which suited him fine. He stank of the smokes of many burning materials—that much he could scent; and a low rumbling in his ears told him his hearing was starting to return. Still feeling hot, he staggered to a tree past the edge of the parking lot, sat down there, his knees folded up to his chest, and devoutly hoped the cruel world would not notice him over here.


	8. Not Giving In

"_Mgg-uh! Mgg-uh!"_

The sounds weren't intelligible. Tim thought that might be his name he was hearing, but he kept his eyes shut and lowered his head to his knees. _Go away! Go away!_ Hands, though, pulled at him; and he flailed, but they pushed him down; rolled him.

"_...you nuts?!_ Your suit coat was smoldering, Probie!! Didn't you notice?!"

_Of all the sounds I get to hear clearly again, the first _would be_ Tony's voice._

Tim opened his eyes as he sat up; met the fear in the eyes of Tony and Gibbs. Ziva ran up, escorting a woman from the rescue squad, and Tim pulled himself back into character. "There is no need for concern; I assure you, I am quite all right," he said in his Prince Friedrich persona.

Gibbs gave him an angry look, clearly displeased with Tim's priorities. "Your Highness, your hands are all bloody and burned. At least let the EMT tend to them."

With what he hoped was a stoic look, Tim allowed the woman to treat and bandage his hands and attend to a few cuts on his face and neck. "You're sure you're not hurt anywhere else? No broken bones, sprains, aches, dizziness..." her list went on and on. Tim largely tuned her out, only shaking his head now and then, for he was deep in thought.

"We'll take His Highness back to NCIS," Gibbs told the woman. "His Highness has, uh, been attending meetings at our headquarters."

When the rescue squad woman left, Tim shrugged off Tony's offer of a helping arm as they headed for the car that Gibbs and crew had come in. Tim got in the front passenger seat when Gibbs beckoned him to do so. "Sit. You've had quite a day," Gibbs commanded. "Ziva, you stay here with him."

Tim caught the look Gibbs gave Ziva, and her small nod. It clearly said, _Don't let him leave._ But Tim had no intention of doing so, still hunkered in the depths of grief. Ziva climbed in the back seat, behind him, and released him to his thoughts. Gibbs had left them the key, so Tim, with aching hands, slid over, started the car up and rolled down the windows, then shut off the ignition and returned to the passenger seat. Since they were in a shady spot, the car wouldn't get too hot this way.

Gibbs and Tony returned to the two blackened cars. The scene was chaotic, with police, fire fighters, the Secret Service, the CIA and the State Department all swarming the site like ants. "All we need is NASA, the Food and Drug Administration, and the National Park Service to show up, and we can start planning that all-federal picnic day I've been hoping for," Tony remarked, earning him the expected headslap from his boss.

They spent a half hour negotiating jurisdiction with the other agencies, dancing to keep away from the ravenous press and news teams. The police kept the reporters from getting too close. Gibbs wanted both cars and the dead Secret Service agent. The Secret Service didn't have forensic capability, so they were agreeable, if, predictably, sorrowed by the death of one of their own. The CIA was harder to convince, but in the end, Gibbs won out, and made the arrangements for the vehicles to be brought to NCIS. Jimmy Palmer was summoned to come retrieve agent Shaw's body.

Tim was startled out of his thoughts by strange flashes of light, like those he'd seen while rescuing the men out of the cars. _Cameras!_ "Your Highness, look this way, please!" "A statement for the _Washington Post_, please, Your Highness!" "MSNBC News, Your Highness. We have film of you pulling men out of burning cars! Tell, us please—" "Look at his hands! Janie, get a close-up!" "Is it true that one of the victims is your uncle, Your Highness?" "Do you attribute this to a terrorist attack, Your Highness?" "Your Highness, the revolutionaries—" "National Public Radio, Your Highness, A statement, please—"

_Oh, for the love of_—

"Please, this is not the time. A statement will be made later. But not now. Thank you." Tim said as Friedrich. He felt bad about committing Friedrich to that, but what else could he say? _He'll probably _want to_ make a statement, but how would I know what he'd say?_

Now the press was around all four windows, like vultures eager to feast, still demanding. Tim slid back over to the driver's seat, restarted the car, rolled up the windows, locked the doors, and turned on the air-conditioning. There they sat until Gibbs and Tony came back, angrily shooing the reporters away like crows in a garden. Tony got in the back seat, and Gibbs pulled the car out.

Tim couldn't hold in his curiosity. "Boss—the others..."

"One of the Secret Service men is dead. Everyone else is en route to the hospital. Don't know their status. When we got here, and found them, but couldn't find you..." Gibbs flashed to a worrisome memory of the injured men being loaded onto ambulances, the black hulks of the car and the limo, and his agent, missing. "...then Ziva spotted you; away from everyone, at the tree."

"I had to get away. Boss, I pulled them out. Everyone but Shaw. He was dead." Tim could feel the tears forming. "It's my fault. If I'd moved faster, maybe..."

"McGee! He was probably killed instantly. You should know by now that you can't save _everyone!"_ That came out harsher than he intended, so Gibbs put a hand on Tim's shoulder before exiting the parking lot. "It sounds like you did fine."

- - - - -

Back at NCIS, Gibbs ordered Tim to get checked out by Ducky. NCIS was nearly as busy as the parking lot of the hotel had been. Jenny and the two CIA agents were at a standoff; Friedrich was on the phone to the hospital; Kerstin looked dazed.

"Wait until McGee gets up here," said Jenny. "I don't want to go through this discussion twice."

Presently Tim appeared, with Ducky. "He's reasonably well," Ducky announced, "considering the that he survived a bomb blast. I prescribe a good night's sleep, and we'll see what tomorrow holds." He left, with a last look at Gibbs and Jenny.

"We haven't examined the vehicles yet," Jenny began, "but it seems likely that two small bombs were involved; one at each vehicle. Not large enough to blow the vehicles to pieces, but clearly enough to cause physical damage. And sadly, one fatality." Her eyes, and others, went to screen showing CNN film of the (at the earlier time) still-burning vehicles. The screen legend read: _Breaking news: Assassination attempt on Prince Friedrich of Nordhavland in Washington._

"Amateur work, then," said CIA agent Nylman. "Knowledgeable people would have made it a much larger ka-boom. My guess is the bomb in the Secret Service car went off when they started it up. The limo hadn't started yet, but was caught in the other car's blast. Finally, the fire made the limo go up like a roman candle."

"Still has to be the Nordhavland terrorists," said agent White. "Who else would target the prince?"

Friedrich ended his phone call and rejoined them. "I apologize for coming in late. I had to call my parents and let them know I was all right, before they saw a news report or were contacted by the media.. They would worry."

"And did you find out about your uncle?"

"Oh, yes. He is conscious, and not too badly off. A concussion, and a sprained wrist. I talked to him. He will only have to stay one night in the hospital." Friedrich smiled. "His doctor asked him if he knows any special agents. Why would that be?"

Ziva spoke up. "He should have guards..."

"The Secret Service is on that," said Jenny. "He'll get good attention."

They then asked Tim to tell what he knew. He told them, hearing the hollowness in his voice as he spoke, his eyes downcast. He still felt inadequate. "I'm sorry, Your Highness, for putting you in a spot about giving a statement. Maybe I should have thought that through."

"No, Agent McGee, it is...ah, 'no worries'. A statement would be expected. If the palace does not make one, then Kerstin and I will create one. No one will expect one for another few hours."

"What does this do to your social schedule, Your Highness?" asked Jenny.

"All appearances scheduled for tomorrow will be cancelled, out of respect for that unfortunate Secret Service agent. Kerstin will take care of that. Then Wednesday, we, ah, pick it up again."

"Is that wise, Your Highness? The blatant assassination attempt—"

Friedrich's eyes turned hard. "We do not change the schedule. To do otherwise would give the terrorists a victory. If Agent McGee is willing—"

"I'm your man, all the way," Tim said immediately.

"I thank you, Agent McGee; and Nordhavland thanks you." The prince bowed.

Expressing concern for the prince's safety, the CIA and Jenny arranged that the prince, Kerstin and Steffen would be checked out of their hotel and put up in NCIS for the duration of their Washington stay. Tim was not terribly surprised that there might be things like beds tucked away somewhere in the building; there was a lot he still didn't know about it. He himself was urged to travel in disguise, for his own safety.

- - - - -

The meeting broke up. Friedrich looked around for water or a cold drink. Ziva offered to get him one, and he followed her to the first floor.

"I've been reading up on Nordhavland," she said, as they sat at her desk; her other teammates still upstairs.

"Ah. The guidebooks usually say, 'a small, pastoral country, where the inhabitants are outnumbered by cows, but not by pigs.'"

She smiled. "Yes, something like that. But I was more interested in the history. In World War II, Nordhavland was neutral. The Germans overran it, eventually, and ordered the capture of the Jews. But so many of your people fought back. And your relatives—what were their names?"

He looked sad. "Bergen and Mathilda. Mathilda was sister to my grandfather, Johann VII; Bergen, her husband. They...arranged for safe passage for over a thousand Jews and the Roma people, the gypsies, to Sweden and other countries. The...Germans finally caught them, and they were brutally murdered."

She dared to lay a hand on his. "I'm sorry," she said softly.

He squeezed her hand. "It happened many years before either you or I were born. But still the family mourns them. They were idealists in the best way. They did what everyone should have done. But of course, sometimes idealists suffer.

"They were not the only ones in the royal family, or in the country, to help this, ah, 'underground'. Just the most successful because they were determined. It was so _wrong,_ this unspeakable evil. For hundreds of years Jews and the Roma were a vibrant part of our country; living side-by-side with others. And then this! It is only in the last few decades that they have started coming back.

"Do not believe that everyone in Nordhavland felt that way: a few, ah, scoundrels were happy to turn in their neighbors. But most of us just wanted peace...Thank you for listening, _Frauelein_ Officer David. I, ah, talk too much sometimes."

"Not at all, Your Highness." She gave him an almost shy look with her smile. "My first name is Ziva."

He brightened. "And please call me 'Friedrich', or 'Freddy'."

" 'Freddy'. I like that." She smiled into his eyes, noticing he still hadn't let go of her hand.

- - - - -

The rest of the crew was still watching the TV news reports upstairs. For a small country, Nordhavland certainly commanded the late afternoon news. "We'll go through all the tapes; get them from all the stations," said White. "We'll try to identify everyone in that parking lot."

Jenny nodded. NCIS had enough on its plate without having to do _that_ work, too. "We'll get a list of everyone who was at the Heyer German Club affair."

"I can, uh, cross-reference it with all the scheduled attendees for the rest of His Highness' events," Tim volunteered.

Jenny looked a little amused. "With your hands all bandaged, McGee? I don't think so. But you can work with Kerstin on that. Let's go, people. Tomorrow's a research day, and then on Wednesday, it's show time again!"

"What's the first event Wednesday?" Tony asked.

Kerstin brought up the schedule on her laptop, and on Jenny's direction, emailed it to her so she could distribute it to the others. "A visit to the Germania Rest Home at 1 o'clock. At 3 o'clock, the opening of the Baltic Society's new library. But the big event is in the evening, the Hanseatic League Ball. Very, ah, 'over the top'. It would be fun, if not for the current problems."

"We'll need security up the wazoo," said Gibbs.

"The Secret Service will provide replacements," said White. "I've talked with them; they have a line of volunteers out the door, ready to see this through. Their way of honoring their own."

"And His Highness' bodyguards?"

"NCIS will supply those. Primarily you, Gibbs, and Ziva, Tony," Jenny said; and smiled a bit at his eager nod. "But at the ball itself, I have other plans for Ziva..."


	9. Preparations

The crew now formed of habit sat in Jenny's office Tuesday morning, reading the various file copies Intel had provided from assorted media of yesterday's bomb blast. Gibbs and Tony picked up Steffen at the hospital and brought him to NCIS. The others were glad to see him, and the duke insisted on getting back to work, though he gratefully accepted Jenny's offer of a comfortable chair and a footstool.

Tim felt rather embarrassed by the photos and accounts of him (well, as Friedrich) pulling the men out of the cars; it made him sound like some sort of hero, when he was just doing his job as he saw it. He read the clippings, sighed; read some more, sighed again.

Gibbs sat down beside him on the couch. "You took an awful lot of risks yesterday."

"Y-yeah , but I had to, boss."

_Oh, brother._ They didn't have time for a heart-to-heart, or skull-to-skull, as Gibbs would call it (as in, _boring a hole in your thick skull and pouring in a gallon of industrial-strength sense_), today. But soon. _If_ Tim lived that long.

Gibbs changed the subject. "The press is eating this up. His Highness told me that his parents have told him that the coverage is _huge_ all over Europe. The prince is being touted by some as 'the bravest man alive' for saving those four men, all by himself. It's great publicity for Nordhavland; sure to increase their tourism. Even TIME Magazine has contacted the palace, wanting to do a cover story on him."

Tim smiled faintly. "Good..."

"But I need to talk to you about something else. Let's go out in the hall..."

- - - - -

"I am to _what?!"_

"Ziva, don't take that tone. You're the best candidate we have to be His Highness' – that is, McGee's – date for the Hanseatic League Ball tomorrow." At the same time as Gibbs had gone off with Tim, Jenny had just motioned Ziva to follow her into a small conference room and closed the door.

"No! Director, I'm sorry…no, I'm not sorry. But no!"

Jenny was exasperated. "What is the problem here? I'm not asking you to marry him! You just have to be decorative on his arm for an evening. Dance a little. Dance with other people, too; that'll probably be expected. That's all I'm asking! You might even enjoy it! How often is one invited to a ball with royalty in attendance?!"

Fake_ royalty, is what this is. Why can't she understand?! This is _McGeek,_ as Tony calls him. We can work together, mostly, but outside that, we have nothing in common._ Ziva took a deep breath. "Why not have Abby be his date? They're good friends, and have a, ah, past history."

"Too dangerous, for one thing. I need a date for him who can take care of herself. His Highness' date will be at his side most of the time, and therefore in the path of fire. We don't have the resources to be protecting Abby…Ziva? Do I need to make this an _order?"_

She sighed. "No, Director; I'll do it." _Though dancing with McGee will certainly not be my idea of 'fun'._

- - - - -

Tim was incredulous. "Ziva?! I can't! Boss…she's _lethal!_ I make one false step on the dance floor and it'll be..." (he mimicked cutting his throat, complete with sound effect).

"You're exaggerating!"

"I may risk my life on some missions, but I know a suicide run when I see it! And this is one of them!"

Gibbs couldn't help grinning. "No, it's not; and from your history, I'd say no, there's no 'may' about it. But His Highness can't appear at the ball dateless..."

"Well, I know I can't ask Abby. This is too risky to take her. Aren't there ­_any_ other options?"

"I don't see any. It's got to be Ziva...unless you want to take DiNozzo, in drag."

Tim turned quite green. "ARRRRRGGHH! I may have to throw up! It'll take me until tomorrow to scrub that image from my mind!!"

Gibbs laughed. "Settle down. Are you all set, otherwise, for the ball?"

Tim hadn't thought nearly that far in advance. Suddenly shock hit him as he realized something he'd forgotten. "Boss, I can't – I can't dance!"

"What do you mean, you can't dance?! Everyone is capable of dancing. And I know you've been dancing with Abby a few times."

"No, I can do the modern stuff, though I think I look like that funky chicken sometimes. But I've never learned ballroom dancing!"

Gibbs blanched, then bellowed, "JENNY!"

The Director came over; Ziva following. "You screeched?" she said, with a raised eyebrow, while ignoring Ziva and Tim making faces at each other.

"McGee needs ballroom dancing lessons. Stat!"

"Well, don't look at me. He's too young to be my tango partner. People would talk. KERSTIN!" When Friedrich's aide trotted up, Jenny said, "Do you know ballroom dancing?"

"Yes, Director. And the reels and other dances done at such affairs, if you mean the Hanseatic League Ball."

"Fine. Your assignment today is to make McGee an expert dancer. Nothing less will do."

Kerstin looked at Tim. He offered her his hand. "No, first you must bow when presenting your hand, and present your hand palm up," she corrected him. He gave her a wry smile, and they went off to a vacant room to practice, practice, practice.

- - - - -

"We have a serious problem," CIA agent Nylman said to the others shortly thereafter. "We have a list of over 600 unique names to go through; and that's just people at the club function yesterday or on the list for one of the functions tomorrow. The ball has over 350 registered attendees – they sold out five months ago, when it was announced that His Highness was coming. Even if we put 10 more people on this, we still couldn't do thorough background checks on everyone before the ball starts."

"What are the alternatives?" asked Gibbs.

"There's a simple but effective one. First, allow for _no_ onsite parking, and no deliveries to the convention center where the ball will be held that day. The convention center probably won't go for that, so we can instead insist on mandatory inspection of all vehicles parking there. The CIA will supply agents for that."

Jenny nodded. "What else?"

"Bring in a couple of hand luggage security scanners, like the FEP ME 640 DETEX or one of the L3 Communications X-ray imagers, and a couple walk-through scanners. We should also have someSloan-Sirius Tech sensor chips to detect chemical and biological agents."

"The guests will not, ah, be happy about all the security," Steffen remarked.

"Tough. Depends on how expendable you folks feel McGee is. From our point of view, one of you NCISers is pretty much like another." said Nylman. "I'm just sayin'..." he added, looking innocent.

From behind him, Tony was measuring the back of Nylman's head for a punch. Gibbs looked bland, but Jenny shook her head. Slightly.

"Can we rent all this on short notice?" Jenny asked.

"We can get it for you. _We_ have the right contacts," said CIA agent White.

"You know, I'll just bet you do," said Tony benignly. "For all kinds of stuff. Legal and illegal; peaceful and torture."

Nylman stepped right into Tony's personal space. _"You_ are out of line!"

"And _you _are out of breath mints!" Tony retorted.

"Please. Stop," said Friedrich. "Let us go forward with the plan. If there is a cost to the security equipment, Nordhavland will gladly cover it. We respect the need to secure everyone's safety at the ball, not just Agent McGee's."

- - - - -

They broke for lunch. Ziva ran out to the Navy Yard _Sbarro's _to get pizza for Tim, Friedrich, Kerstin and herself. "How are the dance lessons coming?" Ziva asked, before biting into her hot slice.

"Quite well. I'm sacrificing my feet so Tim learns not to tread on yours," Kerstin laughed, earning a playful poke from Tim.

"Well, that's something. You make me look bad on the dance floor, McGee, and I _will_ kill you. With my beaded purse, if necessary." said Ziva sternly.

"Death by terrorists; death by Ziva. What a tossup!" Tim grinned. "I think I'm doing okay already, and Kerstin's such a good teacher I know I'll be ready to waltz you off your feet by tonight!"

Kestin blushed a little and changed the subject. "So, Freddy, I read online that following yesterday's news reports, you've received nearly a hundred marriage proposals at the palace," Her eyes brimmed with laughter.

"Now where were all these ladies when I needed a date in June for the _Midsommar_ Ball?" Freddy said, with a rueful smile, and a kick at his cousin.

Ziva felt an unexplained sad tug at her heart at the news. "You don't have a girlfriend, Freddy?"

"It sounds like I have nearly one hundred now," he grinned.

Tim's eyes met Ziva's, and he suddenly understood. He gave her a smile, and she looked away, then shyly returned it. Under the table he gave her hand a pat.

"We must, ah, get back to work," Kerstin said, rising. "I never thought of dancing as work. Until now. I shall enjoy a hot bath tonight!"

- - - - -

Jenny called them all in just after 2 o'clock. "The Germania Rest Home is off the list for tomorrow. A small bomb went off there. No injuries, fortunately. The police say a timer was found. We can assume that the bomb went off early, as it was surely meant to go off tomorrow afternoon."

"We could make this investigation easier by just stopping everyone in the city who's carrying a bomb," said Tony. "It seems like that must be just about everyone!"

"If I didn't need you to do other things, that job would be yours, DiNozzo," said Gibbs.

- - - - -

It was half past seven when Tim finally left NCIS for home that evening; the city attempting to cool at night, with the success of an ice cube on a hot griddle, as August started to melt away, and only one or two more months of summer heat would be left. The setting sun reflected in riotous amber, gold and scarlet in dozens of city windows as he headed for the bus stop. It was really too dark now for the sunglasses that he had started wearing as part of his disguise.

He took them off, and for a moment, removed his boater hat, chosen because it was straw and cool, to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Being inside all day with air-conditioning could make one forget the choking humidity outside, and Washington was nothing if not humid.

The Navy Yard Metro station was his destination, and he was glad, as he reached the Navy Yard gate at Isaac Hull Avenue and M Street and removed his hat yet again to wipe off the sweat, to not have the sun beating down on him.

"_Is that him?" "It is!" "Get him!"_

Tim dove for cover. Those German speakers weren't either Freddy or Steffen. _"Get down!"_ he called to the attendant at the gate, and pulled out his own gun to return fire, but found it useless over his bandages. _If I can only get my phone to work...!_ "Boss? You still at NCIS? I'm in trouble. Yes, _again!_ At the gate..." A zinging bullet careened off his phone, fortunately veeing in the other direction. _That was that loaner phone. Gibbs is going to _kill _me... _he thought, forgetting that he might die where he was, first...

Navy Yard Security varoomed up to the gate, and the gunmen melted away in the growing shadows. Tim was left explaining himself – it all sounded rather foolish, particularly when one of the Security people handed him a phone. "She wants to speak with you."

There was no doubt who _she_ was. "Well, McGee, have them drive you back here," Jenny said. "We have one bed left, and I guess it'll be yours for the duration, if you can't get home safely."

"Will there be a mint on my pillow?" he asked, recklessly.

"Don't push it, McGee."

"No, ma'am."


	10. At the Ball

"Here we go...here we go...audio up..." As the now-sparser group of Jenny, Friedrich, Kerstin and the two CIA agents, Nylman and White, watched from NCIS' large plasma screens, Gibbs was seen about to enter the ballroom, image broadcast courtesy Tony's tiny American flag lapel pin camera. Gibbs' camera angle, on another screen, picked up Tony, who was already in the room. The Hanseatic League's appointed decorators had transformed a pricey, though otherwise conventional, convention center ballroom into a lush party room decorated regally in the Nordhavland colors of gold, blue and green. Gibbs then turned so the camera mounted on his suit would pick up Steffen, just coming in the door now, and then Tim and Ziva when they arrived.

Steffen was seen to stride in, as if he had done this hundreds of times before (which he certainly had). The League's majordomo announced, his voice booming over the Viennese music, _"The Duke of Vogelweise!"_ Enthralled, the assembled attendees turned and gaped in delight. The night had already become magical for them, like something out of a storybook, and more was yet to come.

"All of the ball attendees are there. No late-comers will be allowed to come in. His Royal Highness and his escort can now make their entrance..." Kerstin said.

Jenny glanced at the young woman and smiled to herself. _What an asset she would be for us, with her assorted knowledge. Though she seems to like her current job. And it's not like we should bring another redheaded woman into this place..._

Then the music dropped to a quieter pitch, and the majordomo announced,_ "_ _His Royal Highness, Friedrich of Nordhavland, and Miss Ziva David!"_

They came in at a slow pace, to the assembly's low ooohs and ahhhs. As if to cup them gently in its loving hand, a soft spotlight picked out the honored guests as the other lights dimmed a trifle. He wore a most exquisitely tailored white tie outfit, complete with his state decorations. But she, _she_ was the eye-catcher (as well she should be) in a stunning Hungarian-made ball gown of dusky orchid; stretchy satin and lace with the bodice and long gloves beset with thousands of Swarovski crystals; glimmering like countless tiny lights of enchantment. Her chestnut hair was piled high on her head in artful twists; a silver tiara adding to the grace. Cameras popped everywhere, and by morning, millions of people, particularly in Europe, would be wondering who that beauty on the prince's arm was. Tim, as the prince, looked masterful: strong, confident, yet kind; Ziva bore a beaming smile befitting a princess.

"That's it," Kerstin said to them through her headset. "Walk the room, keep smiling, turn, then come back to the middle of the room for your first dance."

Friedrich watched in wry amusement. "My clothing is having a better time this trip than I am."

Kerstin covered her mouthpiece. "Don't let Tim hear you say that. He still wants to pay you for ruining your suit Monday."

Dismissing this with a wave, Friedrich said only, "How is security?"

Gibbs answered the question when Jenny put it to him. Like Tony, he looked uncommonly dapper in white tie. _"Reasonable. The CIA reports that it didn't take long to get people through Screening. Some grumbling; two confiscated ladies' pistols – claimed to always be carried with them – despite D.C. gun laws. Nothing more."_

Tony joined in from his spot across the room, where he had a good view of the honored guests. _"Three doors in and out of the ballroom; one is to a service corridor. There's a CIA guy there preventing access. No other functions on this floor tonight. In fact, there's nothing else on in the convention center tonight. Must be hard to sell space for a mid-week event. The League probably got a good deal on this room."_

The music had started again. His Highness and his lady companion lead off the _Emperor Waltz_ in a sharp, sparkling execution; gliding, step, step, gaily; their smiles for each other brilliant. The room watched in rapture, a night most of them would never forget; a night when the legendary glamour of royalty – exotic and unknowable for most Americans – cast its spell over the ball.

For Tim and Ziva the experience was more pleasurable than either of them would have thought possible. Each forgot any little animosities held against the other, and instead luxuriated in the moment, the music, the beautiful setting.

Then, at the allowed time, the crowd joined in the dance, and the room was alive with swirling finery: the white ties, and the gowns of all styles and colors. The crowd was of all ages, from the very old to young teens, and younger still: at one side, a boy of about 7, in his own small white tie, danced with a little girl in a pretty pink-frosting-colored party dress. Both were already good dancers; a skill they would appreciate later in life.

Nylman was connected to the parking garage security detail. "All clear so far." Jenny relayed this to the people at the ball.

"_I can't believe they'd pass up something this big,"_ said Gibbs. _"Terrorists live on…terror. Take out His Highness, a few dozen ball guests, and everything's good in their world."_

"We've been assuming that the terrorists are not among the attendees," said Nylman. "I can't rule out that someone, or someones, at the ball is a part of this."

"Seems strange," said Jenny. "This ball is largely the image of wealth, like its name. The old Baltic merchants' guild. Yet, possibly, some of these people might want the monarchy torn down…and redistributed…to whom?"

"Perhaps to several directions," said Friedrich, "as long as they, ah, get their cut first."

The next dance was a reel. Tim and Ziva dutifully took their place at the head of the lines and lead off the dance. Those not joining in clapped appreciatively in time with the music. When it ended, Tim and Ziva were hot, happy and laughing at the fun of it all.

"They're naturals. Both of them," Jenny said, then laughed. "I hope we don't lose them to one of those dancing competition TV shows."

The ball bore on. Tim and Ziva both took other partners, several times. When they would come back to each other, it was with an unhesitant smile. _"They are having almost too good a time,"_ Gibbs said to the people back at NCIS.

"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," said Jenny.

Kerstin identified for Tim a few people that His Highness would know. Tim remembered John Rexhausen from the club reception on Monday, and greeted him, and the woman about his own age with him – his wife, Greta, Tim surmised, and bowed to her as such.

"Good memory," said Kerstin, "although I should have warned you, Mr. Rexhausen has been known to turn up at events with another woman." Tim made a small _urk_ing noise in the back of his throat and moved on hurriedly.

"_Friedrich!"_ There was a young blonde calling to him, her voice was a pale screech. _"You've been in town and you didn't call me?! Or ask me to be your date tonight?!" _She charged toward him.

"_Name?"_ Tim said softly, though with some anxiety, into his mouthpiece.

Kerstin stared at the screen. "This is no one I know…Your Highness, who is that?"

But Friedrich was also puzzled. "I…do not know."

"_Think,_ Your Highness! _Hurry!"_

"I…she must have been someone I had one date with…sometime…but…"

"And she obviously made a lasting impression!" Kerstin snapped, then added to Friedrich something in Swedish that didn't sound polite, and he retorted in German. Into the mouthpiece she said, "Your Highness, we're working on a name. Stall."

Tim was flummoxed. He went with the first idea that popped into his head. People often say that the first idea is the best one; but after years of results like mustard-and-sugar-cookie sandwiches, he knew that wasn't always true for him. But this was all he had. _"My dear, it is a delight to see you again. You look lovely."_

"_That doesn't explain why you haven't called me, Friedrich!"_

"_Ah, my sweet, the demands of state are many."_

A sound popped in his ear. "Marie Ahlbach," it said simply, then added after a moment, "You met her at Orlando, Florida, three or four years ago. You had one date."

"_But, Friedrich, you come to Washington, _my town,_ and…"_

"_I am most sorry, dear Marie. We did have a lovely time in Orlando, did we not? I shall always remember how beautiful you looked that night…"_

She glared at him. _"It was a _luncheon_ date, and it was in Miami Beach, not Orlando! And my name is MariA!"_ She stormed off.

The NCIS room people turned to look at Friedrich. He threw up his hands, helplessly. "I did not remember well. It was years ago, and I am only human…"

As another dance, the _Heel and Toe Polka_, started, the crew turned to other matters, since the ball seemed to be going well. Nylman had something on his mind; leftover business that they had not covered in the rush to get ready for the Wednesday events: the afternoon dedication of the Baltic Society's new library, which went off well, and of course, the ball.

"There are no coincidences," said Nylman. "Having the would-be assassins find McGee twice up by the Metro station indicates they think His Highness is in the area. Someone's 'made' the Navy Yard."

Jenny frowned. "The Navy Yard's a big place, but I ordered a beefing-up of security at our entrances this morning, and have suggested that the other buildings do likewise."

"That's about all you can do, without more information," White said blandly.

_That's true enough, but why do I get the feeling that someone _does have _more information?_ Jenny thought, lips pursed. There were many things that she wouldn't voluntarily say in front of the CIA, and dark suspicions were among them.

"_Got a problem," _Tony said suddenly._ "My reader is detecting gas, and it's up 14 ppm over the reading I took 15 minutes ago."_

"What kind of gas?"

"_Not sure. I'm not getting a good answer from the reader."_

"_We have two sensors mounted," _said Gibbs._ "One's outside the main ballroom door, in that hall, and the other's in the corner where the buffet is. Check them out."_

DiNozzo couldn't resist a grin._ "Are they serving beans? That could explain the gas."_

"_Get going!!"_

The sensor by the buffet registered as fully operational on Tony's reader. Grabbing an hors d'oeuvre as he walked away, he then headed for the main entrance.

There he found a man in white tie, apparently one of the guests, on a paint-stained convention center ladder, doing something to the sensor mounted 9 feet off the ground. Tony's reader showed the sensor to definitely be malfunctioning.

"Hi, buddy!" Tony called up cheerfully. "Need a hand?"

The man turned. "Oh, I think I can handle it. My company makes these things. A new style of smoke detector; this is a prototype. When I heard its low battery warning sound, well, you know I just had to check it out. My company's got its image to maintain, you know!" He came down the ladder with it, smiled, and extended his hand. White-haired and bright-eyed, and a bit on the short side, he seemed like a cheerful elf. "My name's John Rexhausen."

"Tony DiNozzo. John, I got some news for you. First, as I think you know, that's not a smoke detector."

"What?! Well, of course it is. My company..."

"Second, you're under arrest for attempted murder. No one likes to die by gas poisoning." Tony pulled out his handcuffs and secured the man who was too surprised to comment further.

- - - - -

They let the CIA take Rexhausen away. _"The readings are returning to normal," _Tony reported, _"now that the Sloan-Sirius Tech guy who installed them returned the chips Rexhausen had taken out. It seems I was picking up normal background readings, but the chemical agents found in Rexhausen's pockets would have gone unnoticed if released and the sensors really were out of operation."_

"Good work, Tony," said Jenny. She turned to the others in the room, and said, "I'll be right back."

In her private bathroom, she called Gibbs on her cell phone. "Are you out of camera range?" she asked.

"_I can be."_ A moment later he said, _"Okay."_

"Did you follow that with Tony? I think Rexhausen's too small a fish to be the mastermind of this."

"_Yep. He was one of the background checks that we were able to do, before we stopped. For a rich man, he seemed to follow a lot of fringe-left causes. But something on the scale of terrorism...I have questions."_

"Well, I'd rather not interrogate anyone connected to the case as long as His Highness is still in residence. The CIA will get the information they need."

"_But will they share it with us?"_

"I don't know. All I do know is, I'm convinced that this is only the tip of the iceberg. Mr. Big's still out there. And that's not something I want to discuss with the CIA yet, while it's still just a hunch. We'd just argue over methods, and get nowhere."

"_I hear you. The ball's only got another half hour to go, and then we'll head back."_

- - - - -

Ziva and Tim both felt sad when the ball ended. The real world would seem much drabber now.

They got into back seat of the limo (Gibbs driving, Tony in the front seat) and stretched and stifled yawns. Tim caught Ziva's eye and smiled. "Thank you for not killing me tonight. I actually had a lot of fun. You're quite a dancer!"

She smiled back. "As are you. I had a great time, McGee..._Tim._ You were splendid. Thank you." _It_ _had been, indeed, fun, _she reflected._ Just one thing kept it from being perfect..._

As they approached NCIS, Tim said, casually, "You're going to have to come inside and get your house keys before you go home."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Your keys. They're on your desk."

She snatched her tiny purse and ran her hand through it. No keys. "How do you know that's where they are?"

His smile was teasing. "Because I took them out of your purse myself before we left for the ball."

"_You _did?!_ Why?!"_

"So you would come inside to get them, of course!" He was on the verge of laughter.

She waved her hands. "Okay. I don't know what your game is, but you were a very nice date tonight, so I guess I'll let you live, Tim. _This_ time. I will come in, get my keys, and then go home."

They went inside the building. As they approached the squad room, she ran ahead, but found no keys on her desk. He stepped back before she could hit him, and only said, "Now that I think of it, I may have moved them up to the Director's office for safe keeping. Let's go see."

Up the stairs to the second floor they went, the building now humming only at a low rumble. Even Jenny's outer office was dark; everyone had gone home.

"My dearest Ziva, you are a picture of loveliness. The screens did not show how truly beautiful you look tonight."

Ziva turned at the voice. Friedrich, standing at the hallway entrance, dressed splendidly in black tie. Her heart melted at the touch of his hand on hers. Tim quietly slipped away.

"Are you, ah, all danced out, my dear? The CD player and the CDs Kerstin and Tim used are still in their practice room..."

"I could dance for hours yet," she murmured, her eyes not leaving his.

And so they did, as the even-better-than-Tim dancer whirled her gracefully along the "dance floor". They danced and danced, their own fairyland in their minds; their own time of princes and nobility and people working on the side of Good surrounding them, encouraging them, wise spectators of a world imaginary or not. The lights automatically dimmed to evening low levels. She danced in her majestic orchid; he in his sharpest of all blacks, and only a lost, passing cricket saw them kiss in their own, shared land of happiness.


	11. Confrontation

CIA agents Nylman and White walked into NCIS a little later than usual on Thursday morning. "Progress!" Nylman said to the others there. "Rexhausen has named six others he was working with – apparently the idea of a long stretch in federal prison doesn't appeal to him. He asked to plea bargain right away. Our folks are out picking up the ones he named now."

"That _is_ good news," Jenny nodded. "Did he say anything about the Navy Yard?"

"Don't think so," said Nylman. But his eyes seemed a twinge evasive.

_He's holding something back…What? And why?_ _Is Nylman…?_ In a fleeting flash of alarm, she thought of calling a contact in the CIA who she really _could_ trust, a friend of almost 20 years. But no. One got nowhere by suspecting _everyone;_ and the more people one suspected, the less reliable the suspicions became. She could wait a bit longer.

Ziva and Friedrich were yawning over their coffee. Tony gave them both a suspicious look, but said nothing; not even commenting on how close to Friedrich's chair Ziva's was. Or was that the other way around? _Eh..._ he said to himself, sounding to himself like Bugs Bunny, _let them learn (loin) from their own mistakes. Or maybe it _isn't_ a mistake._ He was feeling good; the case seemed to be wrapping up, and he could afford to be generous today when it came to other people's emotions.

Already dressed in another of Friedrich's suits for the day's events, Tim returned to the meeting room from a session with Ducky. The bandages on his hands were fewer now, and he was even able to do a little tapping on his keyboard from time to time. All of about five words, before he would grimace and stop, or before Gibbs would headslap him and order him to stop.

Gibbs checked his notes; read from them aloud. "Today His Highness has lunch with Lord Terravoy, an old friend of his father's, at his club...we'll put you on a headset for that one, Your Royal Highness, because you'll probably need to coach McGee along. At 2 o'clock His Highness is a judge at a dog show competition...I don't know _why..."_

"German Shepherds?" Tony speculated.

"Actually, you are not, ah, far off," said Friedrich. "A new breed has been recognized by the American Kennel Club – the Nordhavland Terrier."

"That's not one of those whiny, pocket-sized, beanie-baby-like dogs, I hope," Tony said with a grimace. "Chick dogs, totally."

"Oh, no; the breed is, ah, quite manly," Friedrich said, turning toward him. "They are about half the size of a Volkswagen Beetle, can go about half as fast, and run on ethanol."

Tony _thought_ he was being put on, but wasn't _entirely_ certain, so he kept his mouth shut.

"I'm glad it's not a cat show," Tim remarked. "I'm allergic to cats."

"Is that true?" asked Friedrich. "So am I!"

"_Moving right along,"_ Gibbs said with a glare, "At 4:30 it's a reception at the Baltic Bakery. You're going to be eating all day..."

Tim didn't want to think about what there was to eat at the dog show. Chew toys and rawhide bones? "Isn't there something at night? A concert, or something?"

"Yes, at 10 o'clock; the _Salt Water Worms._ A rock group whose members come from, uh...Poland, Estonia, Sweden and Germany."

"Awesome!" said Tony.

_Great,_ thought Tim, who was not a big fan of loud music.

- - - - -

The day was uneventful, and even enjoyable. Tim felt relaxed with the capture of Rexhausen and his cronies, and was ever more charming and charismatic. He was respectful and yet full of youthful fun with the king's friend, Lord Terravoy, who pronounced him _delightful_. He made numerous four-legged friends at the dog show, including with the representative Nordhavland Terriers, who turned out to be friendly and clever medium-sized brown and cream-colored, smooth-haired dogs. Tony took a picture of Tim petting one of the dogs on an exhibit table while another one chewed on his pants leg, and a third looked ready to piddle on his shoe. Tony would put it in his blackmail-someday file. At the bakery, "His Highness" consumed numerous slices of bread with jam or honey, pronouncing each better than the last. He went away stuffed, glad that he didn't have to do anything other than pocket the rawhide bone given to him at the dog show. (It may have been meant for His Highness' dog, but who could be sure?)

"If this goes on too much longer, McGee is going to turn into His Highness, for real," Jenny remarked to the room. "And that would leave me short an agent. Would you care to join NCIS, Your Highness?" she asked, lightly.

"Alas, I am not certain that I could mimic Agent McGee's accent."

"Well, that would be a problem, then." To their people at the bakery, she said, "Come on back to NCIS. You may want to get some rest, and some dinner besides bread."

- - - - -

It was after 6 when Tim and Steffen strode into HQ. Gibbs, Tony and Ziva were going home to get clubbing-clothing; Tim would again borrow clothes from his double, who assured him that a sports coat over Friedrich's t-shirt, and chinos, would be fine for the concert.

Jenny met them as she came down the stairs, shrugging into her rain coat as she walked. The wind was picking up, and thunderstorms seemed imminent. "I have errands to run," she said. "I'll be back before you leave for the concert. Agent Nylman left a little while ago; he'll be back by 8. Agent White is around somewhere; Nyland had told me White had the rest of the day off, but I guess he changed his mind. Unless he left and I didn't see him leave. If you need help," _I hate to say this to an agent; it just sounds...inadequate..._ "Shultz' team is here." She went out, and they watched the wind blow her about, though she gradually made progress.

Steffen went up the stairs to the second floor, and the guest quarters, ahead of them. Tim and Friedrich lingered on the first floor, where Tim logged onto his computer to see if he had any interesting email, as long as Gibbs wasn't around to hit him. Eventually, the two of them went up the stairs. They all would eat when the others returned; Ziva had volunteered to bring in Indian food.

"I think you will like the t-shirt, Tim," Friedrich said, as they walked slowly up the stairs. The t-shirt Friedrich had – the only one he had brought along, for only in an event like a rock concert could he allow himself to be so informal – he described as showing two planets in space, and reading: '_Many Very Extinct Maps Just Sold', Utters NASA._

"That's great!" Tim laughed, adding to himself, smugly, _Tony will never get it!_

"Yes, poor Pluto was wronged," Friedrich sighed. "I had hoped Nordhavland would present a resolution condemning the action taken against it, but no..." He and Tim exchanged grins. They thought a lot alike.

"Does this building ever lose power in a thunderstorm?" Friedrich asked, seeing a lightning flash as they headed for a guest room parlor, where they'd no doubt find Steffen and Kerstin playing cards.

"Not since I've been here, it hasn't. There's a lot of redundancy built in. It would take a major grid failure for it to..." _Why don't I pay attention to my surroundings, like a good agent would?! _He slowly raised his hands.

"Tim? What is wrong?"

"Nothing much. Just that." Tim jerked his head toward the parlor corner, where White stood with his gun pointed at them.

- - - - -

"But _why?"_ Kerstin said, plaintively; uncomfortable with her hands tied behind her back. "Why are you doing this to us?"

"I think we have discovered the revolution's mastermind in the U.S.," Tim ventured. "I knew, and I think everyone here—_Well, Gibbs and the Director, anyway_—knew, that with the second attack on me near the Navy Yard Metro stop, someone had tipped the forces off that you, Friedrich, were in this area. Someone on the inside."

"And you figured it was me," White smirked.

"Ugly is as ugly does," Tim retorted. _Time. Stall for time. Gibbs & co. will be back soon..._

"What are you going to do?" asked Steffen. "Why risk your career for such a cause as the revolution?"

"Use your head. You're smart enough," said White. "Nordhavland's royal coffers are worth quite, quite a lot. Your country saved a lot of money by staying neutral during World War II. You still had your army, air corps, and navy, true, but of a much smaller size than other countries involved in war. You spent just enough on munitions to keep your armed services in practice. You didn't bankrupt your economy on war spending."

Friedrich boiled over. "We were just as poor as the other countries by the end of the war! When Germany occupied us starting in 1943, our money flew away. They took over our mines, our factories, our businesses. Workers were paid poorly. Some families starved. But we worked _hard_ at the end and brought our country back. We even gave aid to other countries when we could not afford to do so." His voice softened, his eyes taking on a far away look. "My grandfather felt that even a slice of bread should be shared, if another person had none at all..."

"But the royal family, itself, was not affected..."

"Not affected? _Not affected?!_ Art work we owned was looted by the occupying army; much of it is still to be recovered. Our accounts were raided – the ones that they _found._ My grandfather, the king, was made to do and say humiliating things in public to protect the Nordhavlanders, the people he loved. Two of my great-uncles were imprisoned without charges for over two years. Grandfather's sister, Mathilda, and her husband, Bergen, they...The occupiers tried to break our minds, but they could _never_ break our spirits. _And you will not break ours."_ Friedrich's eyes flashed and he stared at White, unflinching.

"What's done is done. I don't care about ancient history," said White. "For the revolution, all that matters is that all of you die. Think of the publicity _that'll_ bring the cause! And I'm going to start it off by ridding the world of one really annoying geek, a pretender." He cocked the gun, and put it to Tim's head.

"_NO!!!"_ Kerstin screamed.

Tim glanced at his Nordhavland friends; his heart filling. They were a much nicer last sight than that goon. He then closed his eyes.

_If only,_ if only_ telepathy were real!..._

_Mom…Dad…Sarah…I love you all so much… _He bit back any expression of sadness; would not give White that satisfaction; and waited for the end to come...


	12. All Good Things Must Come to an End

They arrived back at NCIS all around the same time: Jenny, Gibbs and Tony. Tony was looking forward to a night out at a club, particularly since a) he would get in free, and b) he would get in without waiting. There would be lots of lovely ladies, and he could...

His thoughts were interrupted. "Wild weather, huh?" said agent Nylman, coming in with them, from the other direction, and sounding almost..._human_ tonight. Thunder bellowed behind as the outer doors swung closed.

"Yeah. Great beach weather," Tony remarked. "Where's your little shadow, Nylman?"

"White? He left around 3; took the rest of the day off. Dunno why; don't much care."

Jenny halted, and Gibbs almost bumped into her. "But...he was still here when I left at 6. I know I saw him in one of the conference rooms. Why would he..."

"Are you _sure?!"_ Nylman demanded, in some urgency. "Are you _absolutely sure?!"_

"Well, _of course I am,"_ she said, a touch severely. "He didn't see me, I don't think, but I did see him. Why? What's going on?"

Nylman took to pacing, even though they hadn't gotten even as far as the squad room. "Look, I'm sorry, but I haven't been upfront with you folks, okay? I'm not a regular agent. I'm with our internal affairs division. We've been sizing up White for some time now. We think he's rotten, but we haven't been able to catch him on anything. Can't prosecute a man on just suspicion. When he asked to be put on this detail, I wanted to know why, so they put me as the senior partner. I've been riding you guys hard only to try to get him to slip up. Believe me, I haven't left him alone in here for two minutes—"

"Until now," Gibbs said harshly. "We've got to find him, fast. Who knows what he's into?!"

"I'll call Security," said Jen. "Jethro, get Schultz' team. We'll fan out and—"

A woman's scream shattered the evening quiet. Without a word, they ran for the stairs; Shultz' team nearly beating them out.

- - - - -

"_NO!!! PLEASE!!! Please don't kill him; please don't kill him!! I beg of you!!" _Kerstin sobbed; straining at her ropes.

"Oh, don't worry, Kerstin," White said with mocking concern. "If there is an afterlife, you'll be joining McGee shortly. You _all_ will be." He moved the gun to a slightly better position, ignoring her continued wailing.

"Wrong. If McGee dies, _you'll_ be the next one to go!"

Kerstin, Friedrich and Steffen turned their heads in delight to see Gibbs, Jenny, Tony and Nylman in the double doorway; guns drawn; and Shultz' team right behind them. Tim stayed as he was, knowing this wasn't over yet.

"Put your gun down _slowly_ and _carefully_, Raymond," Nylman said. "Don't do anything stupid. You've no way out of this now." Looking cross but recognizing his defeat, the other agent set the gun softly on the ground, then kicked it over to the others. A huge sigh of relief filled the room, and Tim had to keep telling himself _Don't pass out, don't pass out; only wimps pass out in relief._

Tony untied the ropes at his hands. "Man, Probie; the lengths you'll go to to get out of going to a rock concert!"

_Feh. Typical Tony,_ Tim thought, though he might have been surprised at Tony's spontaneous attempt at a hug...if he'd seen it. Instead Tim was caught up in a larger one; squished like sandwich filling between Friedrich and Kerstin, with Steffen barely on the outside.

"Ah, my dear Tim; you have already sustained too many injuries on my behalf," said Friedrich. "I am sorry. And please do not say you were just doing your job..."

"That's all he seems to know how to say, Your Highness," said Gibbs.

"Smart guy like him, you'd think he'd learn," said Nylman, who, having cuffed White, was on the phone to his agency. "Hey, McGee; you did good. Anytime you want to change jobs, you give me a call, you hear?"

"I'm here! Despite all the wind and rain! With lots of food!" Ziva sang out, coming in the door, carrying a flock of aromatic brown paper bags. "Got vegetable samosa and cheese pakora; biryani, tandoori mixed grill, beef bhuna, jeera aloo, and lots and lots of naan bread, garlic and plain, for those not afraid of vampires...what? What's going on? Did I miss something? I hate it when I miss something."

"Just a little internal matter, now cleared up," said Jenny as Nylman and NCIS' security marched White out the door and away; Shultz' team trailing them.

"I think that for the concert tonight, the prince will send his regrets," said Friedrich as Ziva laid out the mouth-watering, steaming food on the table. "We need to, ah, catch our breaths."

"We've got enough hands for poker," said Tony. "Your Highness, you ever play Texas Hold 'em?"

"I...do not believe that I know what that is," said Friedrich, though his slight smile and the gleam in his eye said otherwise. Tony winced.

"Lordy. Gambling in a federal facility. I hear nothing of this," said Jenny, covering her ears. "La la la." She picked up a tandoori chicken leg and walked out, only one hand now over one ear, but still saying "La la la."

"Do you think she'll be back?" asked Tony of Gibbs.

"Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on whether she decides to break out the bottles of wine she has stashed away."

"Wine! In a federal facility! La la la!"

- - - - -

On Friday morning, Friedrich had one last treaty meeting, and then the sides were finished. He would take it home to present it to his father, the king, and he would indeed tell his father all about it, sometime after all the other tales of his days in Washington were told. He was sure his father wouldn't mind the wait.

The Secret Service demanded that Friedrich keep himself safe for the remainder of his stay, so Tim was once again called into action as His Highness; this time at a meeting of IT specialists – Nordhavland having been one of the European countries at the forefront of the spread of the Internet. Tim was in his element here, and the meeting attendees were pleased to see the prince so knowledgeable. "_Here I thought those royals spent their days painting pictures and going on fox hunts,"_ Tim heard someone whisper. _"They must go online and get spam just like the rest of us." "And their hard drives must crash, too,"_ said another voice._ "Crash? They wouldn't dare!"_

- - - - -

Kerstin snagged Tim's arm when returned. "You know we leave tonight. Tim, I wish we'd had more time together, you and I..."

He brightened. He hadn't been sure if there had been much of a spark between them, but she sounded so wistful...maybe having a girl you liked see you with a gun to your head wasn't all that bad..._Yes, it is. Don't try it again, Tim._ "I would have liked to have shown you some of my favorite places here. Washington's quite a town."

She smiled; slipped her hand into his. "Tim, you must visit Norhavland. I know Freddy would love to have you do so. And I do still live in Stockholm, a week here and there. I would be pleased to show you _my_ city. The 'Venice of the North', the city on water, as we call it. Fourteen islands."

"Um...I have an unfortunate tendency toward seasickness..."

Kerstin laughed. "We have roads, too, Tim. But do come."

He smiled back, not answering, feeling these invitations were like _let's-do-lunch-sometime;_ not really meant. "Where _is_ Freddy?"

"I don't know. He's been acting a bit peculiar since late morning; something to do with a call he got from the palace. Maybe his favorite football, ah, soccer team lost. Well, my Tim, until we meet again..." her soft lips met his, and all thoughts of 'not really meant' went out the window.

- - - - -

Friedrich and his entourage would fly out for Nordhavland at 9 that evening. Goodbyes were already difficult, for they all had grown close in these ten days. In mid afternoon Friedrich steered Ziva into an empty room, and closed the door.

He folded her hands in his, as they sat on the couch. "My dearest one, I have grown so...fond of you. And I do not want to end this. Do say that you will come visit me in Nordhavland. I will, ah, be at your beck and call."

She could already feel the tears coming; since Wednesday she had dreaded this time. "I—I want to say _yes,_ Freddy; that's what my heart is saying. But –"

"No, do not say 'but'. Just say you will come." He took her face in his hands; kissed her tenderly.

"I wish I could, but Freddy, it wouldn't work. We are of different backgrounds, you and I. You are Christian; I am Jewish. What would your people think?"

"They would think as I did, when I first saw you: 'Who is that beautiful woman?'...Darling Ziva, we are a progressive country...and like much of the Western world, statistically not very religious. It would not matter that you are a Jew. If you are a good person, and I know that you are, my people will love you..." He smiled, hopefully. "And my parents do want to meet you."

She could now feel sweetness in her tears. "Well...let me think about it..."

"I will not pressure you. I do hope you decide to come. Wait, I have your email address. So maybe I will pressure you just a little bit. Whenever you want to come, I will clear my schedule for you." A light dimmer was close to hand, so he lowered the lights and they kissed some more.

- - - - -

When Friedrich had to meet with someone else, Ziva, with mixed emotions and butterflies in her stomach, went to her desk in the squad room and dutifully opened her agency email, as was expected of employees every day. One was a note from Gibbs; today, August 24. _Remember to get in your vacation requests for October through March to me by September 1. I don't want to see any more knockdown, drag-out fights like we had last year over time off at Thanksgiving._

She stared at the email, thought, thought again, and then pulled out a leave slip, looking at her calendar as she did so. _Mid October is probably nice along the Baltic Sea..._ She hummed a waltz melody as she filled out her vacation request.

- - - - -

Tim was the last person on Friedrich's list to speak with, and Friedrich pulled him into another empty conference room.

"I hope you had a decent time here, Freddy, despite everything."

"It was...different," Friedrich smiled. "So interesting watching NCIS in action! I have already told the Director that Nordhavland will send an official note of its appreciation for all of NCIS' help. We are indeed grateful; to the agency, but most of all, to you, Tim."

"Oh, I didn't do anything," he said, embarrassed. "Most of the things I did for you turned out to be fun. I couldn't do your job full time, though."

"Nor I, yours. I would not, ah, last a day."

"No, you're pretty courageous. The way you stood up to White...!"

Friedrich snorted. "From my early days, I was taught that I have a responsibility to stand up to bullies and people who threaten our freedoms. But you, Tim, you have courage where it counts. In your heart. And you are, ah, not afraid to act on it..." He patted the table absently and was silent for a moment."

"Tim, you are Irish on your father's side, yes?"

"Yeah. Irish and English."

"And on your mother's side?"

"Well, I've never really looked at the genealogy, and she doesn't know too much about it either, but she claims to be mostly Norwegian, with some..." he met Friedrich's eye as words stuck in his throat. He tried again. "...some German and Polish..."

"Have you wondered, Tim, why you and I look so much alike?"

"Some genetic fluke, I guess. It sometimes produces people who resemble each other. Either that or one of us is the other's _doppelgaenger_, like a fake identical twin, right?"

"Ah, close, but I believe your translation would be an 'evil twin'. And that you are not. Nor am I, I hope. No, there is more to this than a, ah, genetic fluke. The palace historian looked at your mother's lines, and found she is a direct descendant of our King Barend III, who was my great-great grandfather. And before you ask, no, families do not always track where the splintered branches go. That is why I did not know we were related, until this morning. Our families have always been small, one or two children, so I do not have many living relatives today. But I am so delighted to have you among them, my dear cousin Tim!."

"Wow!" Tim said, putting his hands to his head. _"WOW!"_

Friedrich grinned. "Now you must be on good behavior forever more. You are, let me see, 27th in line to the throne. Your mother is 26th and your sister, 28th. That puts you still behind Kerstin, but definitely ahead of Cousin Ilse.

"So you _must _visit Nordhavland. You have family there that very much wants to meet you!"

_Family!_ Tim knew now that he would visit, soon, when Freddy had some time free. He was sure he would enjoy it. And then he'd come back another time with Mom and Sarah, dragging Dad if they could. And the best thing about it was that Freddy's family were probably down-to-earth people, just like Freddy, himself.

"I'll be there," Tim said, a bit flabbergasted.

"Do you promise, my cousin?" Friedrich said, hugging him.

"Just try to keep me away...Cousin Freddy!"

- The End –

- - - - -

_Author's notes:_ And that wraps this story up! Thanks to all my kind reviewers; your comments kept me going!

The notion of Prince Friedrich wanting to be a magpie (Chapter 3) was borrowed from a true event concerning King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden, who, at about the age of six, announced that he did not want to be king when he grew up; he wanted instead to be a truck driver.

I'm considering doing a sequel to this story. What do you think?


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